


Queen of Swords

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Graphic Depictions of War Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Non-Canonical Character Death, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, War, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 133,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Hermione Granger is the weapon they never intended to create. And she will bow down to no one. // Voldemort wins AU. Slowburn Dramione.





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello loves! Welcome to a new fic that I'm incredibly nervous about posting. Without the alpha help of LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13, this fic would not exist; I'd have scrapped it ages ago. Similarly, the pretty polishing has been brought to you by tofadeawayagain; any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> I've projected this will end around fifty-ish chapters-perhaps more-with four parts. Part one is entirely written. This will be a slow burn Dramione. There will be war and fighting, and some aspects of the plot may be triggering; please keep your mental health in mind; I won't be offended if you forego reading this. You may hate some characters at some points, but I hope the premise is enough to keep you around. Redemption is sometimes a long arc.
> 
> Part one warnings include non-con elements, psychological torture, psychological manipulation, and graphic depictions of wartime violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of the HP franchise, much to my dismay.

**Part 1: The Breaking**

**Chapter 1 -** _**The Fool** _

Hermione Granger: Undesirable No. 1.

The posters hung all over London after she'd been found at the scene of a horrific murder, the victim's blood staining her hands. She could still hear Umbridge's sickeningly sweet voice making the proclamation, her amplified voice echoing throughout London while Hermione darted from shadow to shadow in a desperate bid for somewhere to hide: "Hermione Granger is wanted for high treason. She is to be considered armed and dangerous."

Peering out the dingy windows of the shack she had squatted in for the night, Hermione huffed out an annoyed breath. Hermione had sent her Patronus to search for respite in the dark alleys and hovels of London, desperate enough for answers that she'd risked her safety. When no answers had returned, she'd ended up in the shack, having Apparated out of London to the first location should could think of, a field she'd seen from the Hogwarts Express with a decrepit shack near the treeline. She was out of food, and her clothes scratched across her skin after endless weeks of wear. A slick grime coated her face and arms, but she didn't dare stop long enough to let her guard down, not even to bathe or wash her clothes.

She was Harry Potter's murderer. If she stared at her hands hard enough, she thought she might see the rust-coloured stains of his blood beneath the dirt caked into the lines of her palms.

_Don't think, don't think, don't think._

A flicker of light flashed outside the dirty window, and she cringed backward into the shadows, reaching for her wand. An intruding Patronus sailed through the window, landing on the remains of a once-sturdy table that had been reduced to rubble. Hermione couldn't say what exactly the Patronus was, perched on a piece of wood, but they studied each other with keen eyes. It was a bird of some sort, maybe a crow or raven. Whatever it was, it opened its beak, and the now-familiar Patronus spoke.

_I've secured enough Polyjuice potion that you should manage a trip into a nearby town. Not for long; just get enough food to tide you over. Try to blend in. No one knows you're here._

The Patronus ruffled its feathers and took flight, sailing back out the window. Hermione stared hard at the place it had stood, trying to make sense of the circumstances. She supposed that she was far enough from London now to venture from the cabin she'd found herself in after she had Apparated out of Diagon Alley.

She had hopped from location to location, sometimes only barely recalling photos she had seen in textbooks from primary school. She found that she couldn't quite bring herself to wash away the dirt and mud that she'd accumulated after each awkward landing. It was a shield, a barrier between herself and the reality she had promptly exited without forethought; this reality was foreign, sharp and harsh, and she thought the grime rather matched the circumstances. The blood grounded her, reminded her where she had come from. Of where she was now. Of what she had yet to do.

She didn't  _know_  the disguised voice of the Patronus, the animal unrecognizable and giving no indication from whom it had originated. It had appeared one day after she had plucked the hair of an unsuspecting Muggle; the odd little bird had materialized without warning or invitation and urged her to run, to hide. They knew where she was,  _who_  she was. They were coming. She had scoffed and rolled her eyes. She wasn't called the brightest witch of her age without cause; surely they wouldn't look for her in the dirty little hovel she had been squatting in. She was a wanted fugitive, but she had thought they would assume she would maintain her creature comforts near books and well-kept fireplaces.

The crack of Apparition and the ensuing duel had proved her wrong. She hadn't killed anyone that day, but she had stolen several wands and hairs from each of the wizards' heads after incapacitating them. Potion supplies were admittedly hard to come by while on the run, and it was ludicrous to think she'd be able to stay in one location long enough to brew anything useful, but she would be remiss if she hadn't at least taken the necessary precautions on the off chance that she came across an abandoned potions laboratory.

Given her current state of duress and woefully empty pack, luck had not been on her side recently. She hadn't been able to procure Polyjuice potion in months, and her protruding ribs were testament to the the lack of food in the dead of winter. She didn't relish the thought of trapping animals, so she'd managed meager meals of water that didn't look too dirty and whatever scraps she could summon from the waste bins of bars and pubs on the outskirts of disreputable villages. She'd also taken to scavenging eggs from chicken coops along the way. It was food, however unappetizing it looked, and it had sustained her thus far. She avoided thinking about warm meals when she could, and she spent many nights cursing the Five Bloody Exceptions to Gamp's Laws while her stomach rumbled its discontent.

She made her way to the door of the little shack she'd stumbled upon the night before and pulled on the hiking boots she'd acquired from one of the houses in the last village. She'd felt terrible at the time, but she was desperate; the trainers she'd been sporting since going on the run had been falling apart, so she'd left the last few pounds she'd had stowed away in her beaded bag and a hastily scrawled "sorry" in their stead. Opening the door of the shack, she shook off her guilt and steeled herself against the blast of cold air that enveloped her.

The Patronus squawked at her again from the perch it had taken up outside the building and took off between the trees. Freeing her wand from the holster on her hip, she crept through the trees, mindful of where she placed her feet lest anyone was within hearing range. The Patronus in front of her rounded a tree, and Hermione followed, glancing behind her as the bird landed on a hollowed-out tree, squawked once more, and dissolved into the air.

Alone once more, Hermione knelt at the bottom of the tree and called out a barely audible  _Accio_. With bated breath, she waited as the small bag she summoned flew into her outstretched palm. It settled comfortably in her hand, its slight weight easing the tension in her shoulders, but her ears strained to hear the slightest disturbance in the forest around her. Content after a few moments that no one was lurking nearby, she shook the contents into her palm. A sharp sigh escaped her. The bag contained exactly what the Patronus had said: a small container of Polyjuice potion, enough for a few hours in the nearby village.

Carefully, Hermione extracted the small beaded bag that had somehow survived her time on the run and extracted a single, nondescript brown hair — the last of her supply from the duel. She sighed heavily and popped the lid of the potions vial. Distantly, she wondered if the potion was safe to drink. Deciding that she didn't particularly care if she lived or died, she dropped the hair in, watching it bubble to life.

When the potion settled after turning several stages of a stomach-turning puce, she plugged her nose and tipped the vial into her mouth. She shoved a knuckle into her mouth and bit down sharply to avoid crying out in pain as the transformation rapidly overtook her. Skin bubbled, shifting to stretch across newly-lengthened bones, the pain a live wire that had been coiled dormant under her skin, and she rapidly shot upwards a few inches. The newfound height felt strange until her body rapidly muscled, filling out the baggy shirt and jeans that she'd taken from yet another empty cottage's closet. She sighed and stood, cracking her neck. When she realized she couldn't stall any longer, Hermione picked up her wand, slipped it into the pocket of her trousers, and set off into the woods.

The walk to village wasn't long, but it was still too long for Hermione's liking. The Polyjuice wouldn't last, and she needed to be back to the safety of the shack before darkness settled.

Prowling through the woods, she kept her eyes peeled for signs of humanity. Since the night she, Harry, and the others had been ambushed and captured in Hogsmeade, she'd grown overly obsessive in watching her movements. It wasn't that she didn't trust herself, but the world wasn't as she knew it anymore.

If Harry had been here—

_Don't think, don't think, don't think._

Despite her mantra, the thought ripped through her defenses. If Harry was here, maybe she wouldn't have to skulk through the woods like prey.

She shook off the thoughts and the sting of tears that they threatened as she reached the edge of the small Muggle village. The buildings were nondescript and easy to blend in with, just like her disguise. Anyone but Hermione Granger would go undetected here.

Cautiously, she made her way to the market in the center of the town. The village was too small for a proper butcher and even had she found one, being on the run wasn't conducive to keeping fresh meat or produce. She settled on some salted strips of meat that would be enough to keep her stomach from tying in knots when the starvation settled in. She also bartered with a squat woman selling bread, losing over half the money she'd managed to scround together. The jerky would keep the longest; the three apples she'd bought would have to last as long as she could keep them in stasis with magic. Even with the help of her magic, anything fresh tended to go first, and she couldn't risk another brush with scurvy.

As she handed the small coins over to the woman behind the table, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Without her bidding, her muscles coiled in anticipation, and she shifted her weight to her left, feeling her magic flare to life along her fingertips.

Someone was watching her.

Covertly, she scanned her surroundings. Sweeping her eyes up the building and over the rooftops, she found nothing. She tried to avoid tapping her foot while waiting for her change as static energy swept over borrowed skin. The uninvited gaze caressed her skin obscenely, every instinct urging her to run.

When her gaze landed on the woman in front of her, shrewd eyes peered back at her. The woman's lips pulled back in a gummy smile as she began bagging the items Hermione had bartered for. Each one went into the small canvas bag like grain through an hourglass, painfully slowly as she counted the seconds in excruciating agony.

Hermione prided herself on her instincts; they had, after all, only failed her once. She willed her body to remain calm—to anyone else, she was only a stranger passing through. No one had seen the face before, and she didn't look like the witch on the run.

The woman bagged her apples last, and Hermione fought not to rock on the balls of her feet impatiently. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the woman extended the bag to Hermione. As she accepted the handles of the bag, a gnarled hand grasped her wrist.

"Run, little girl. The wolves are out to hunt." The woman's crystal blue eyes turned milky and sightless, her mouth twisting into a horrible imitation of a smile. A seer providing a warning.

With a gasp, Hermione dropped to the ground, primal instinct coursing through her, forcing her to choose: fight or flight. Emerald and ruby bolts of spell fire collided in the space she had been standing. Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm in her chest, each beat punctuated with the crash of wandfire above her. Her hands plunged into both pockets as she rolled onto her back.

In her left, she clutched a knife. In her right, the stolen wand.

Her wand sliced through the air, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the cocoon of a shield surrounded her. Within seconds, cloaked men appeared in the square. They'd practiced since she'd last encountered them. Their disillusionment nearly perfect, she hadn't spotted them in her haste to find food and escape her thoughts.

Once more, she'd made a mistake.

Visions of another night with similar rapid wand fire filled her mind. Piercing screams echoed through her mind, one louder than all the others—Harry's. His final word, her name, reverberated in her head amongst the screams, a hellish chorus of the damned. It mingled with the screaming of the townspeople as they fled the square, the screams becoming a white noise that paralyzed her action.

Wandfire pummeled her shield, the ache in her arm at the increasing onslaught a tell-tale sign of her indecision, her mind carding through her options causing the ward's strength to wane. Sweat pooled along the small of her back, and she grit her teeth as heat cut through the winter air and surrounded her. Each blow to her shield felt like a promise, a morbid caress of death. They'd likely already placed anti-Apparition wards on the area if they'd known to target her here, so that wasn't an option.

Fight or be captured.

Harry's voice echoed in her head, and she stood in a fluid movement, casting the countercharm for her shield.

Six men stood in a semicircle between her and the path she had taken into the village. She didn't have to look behind her to know that more likely blocked her way out. All of them were masked, the hoods of their robes pulled up to cover their hair. Her assailants fired curse after curse at her, each one closer than the last, and as she blocked the spells, paralyzing knowledge coiled around her heart as fruit disintegrated in the wasteland of carnage from their spellwork. They cast stunners and charms intended to disarm her, but not a single ripple of magic glowed the familiar heart-stopping shade of emerald green. Horror tightened a knot in her lungs and she drew rasping breaths in with each step backward, her shields rapidly failing.

They weren't sent to kill her—no, they wanted her alive. They intended to capture her.

The odds weren't good, but capture wasn't an option—it never had been. Since the moment Harry died, it was death or escape. She'd never surrender to these men. If she were to die, she would take as many of them down with her as she could to atone for Harry's murder.

She shifted into action, sending bolt after bolt of vibrant light at the encroaching wizards. As luck would have it, she caught them by surprise, each one looking to their neighbor for the briefest of moments. She flipped the table of fruit and crouched behind it, the old woman long gone, scattering with the other Muggles. Mind whirring with calculations and plausible outcomes, she transfigured the discarded fruit around her to stone with a hasty  _Duro_  charm, preopelling them at her assailants one by one.

Shattering rock clattered to the ground, and spells rent the air. Hermione launched herself over the table and used the confusion and flying debris to incapacitate the man nearest her with a well-aimed  _Sectumsempra_. She avoided watching the spray of blood and tried to block out the gurgling of the man's breath as she whirled on her feet to cast a spell at another attacker. The crunching of rock alerted her to a presence just behind her, and she threw her weight to the left at the last moment; with a bang, the place she stood a moment before was reduced to a charred and smoking pit of rubble.

Hermione continued throwing hex after hex at her attackers, ducking behind overturned tables and piles of mushed food to protect herself from the onslaught of spells. She didn't have time to cast a shield, and she didn't dare pause to catch her breath; any hesitation gave them an advantage.

Each move seemed a terrifying dance with her own death; she'd move inches closer to the path leading out of the village only to be driven backward several feet. The odds were against her, and even months on the run didn't provide her with much of an advantage. Fatigue from the lack of food slowed her reactions, and a stitch in her side hampered her ability to move and forced wheezing breaths from her throat.

At last, the men surrounding her fell out of formation. She took the opportunity to rush them, and she put all of her strength into one last  _Bombarda_ , sending the men flying. She sprinted toward the opening, her heart in her throat, until she was blindsided by a blasting spell.

Her body was thrown several feet into the air and crashed into the remains of the seer's wares. The landing knocked the breath from her lungs, and she fought to regain it. Dark spots danced in her vision. She recognized the smell of blood blooming in the air around her, and her breath took on the distinctive wheeze and rattle of liquid in her lungs. Her mind raced as she realized that she'd managed to keep hold on both her wand and her knife, and she cast a quick, though feeble, shield around herself. She didn't have enough stamina to continue fighting her way out with magic, so she steeled herself for the inevitable, briefly weighing the merits of plunging the knife into her own chest, robbing them of their bounty.

Two men raced toward her, one less graceful on the debris than the other and crashing to the ground in a series of colourful curses, knocking her body back into the hard ground. As spots danced in front of her vision, his accomplice stomped down on her wand-bearing hand. She shrieked as several of the bones in her hand shattered with a loud crack. Vaguely, she could make out the sound of laughter from the men elsewhere in the dust-filled courtyard. He bent over her, his breath fanning across her face.

She shot upward, plunging the knife just below his ribs and twisting it upward. His breath left him in a strangled wheeze, and blood pooled from his mouth. Hermione swiftly removed the blade, curling her injured hand against her chest as he keeled to the side. Wand hand useless, she shot upward brandishing the knife, ready to fight anyone else that neared her.

The kill left her numb; he was neither the first nor the last man that would die by her hands, but the adrenaline quickly wore from her system as the men closed in on her. This was the end. She'd either die or be taken captive here.

She readied herself for their attack, but the men hovered at the fringe, another figure stepping forward. He was dressed in robes such a deep shade of crimson that they were nearly black. She only noticed the difference in color now that he was so close. Slowly the figure drew a wand from the depths of the robes. "Kneel," a cold voice commanded from behind a steel mask. With a flick of his wand, Hermione dropped to her knees, and her head was wrenched upward: a subservient position for the broken witch. Her heart plunged into her stomach and a soft whimper escaped her lips as her fingers were forced open, releasing the dagger and the hawthorn wand that had kept her alive all these months. Her only lifelines, gone.

Rough fingers tugged the crimson hood backward, and the clatter of his mask hitting the ground sealed her fate with the death knell of her heart.

Ronald Weasley, her friend, cocked his head to the side as he examined the broken witch, a cruel smile flirting with the hard lines of his lips.

Cracks of Apparition sounded around her.

"Ron, don't do this. Please, I know you're in there somewhere," Hermione pleaded. The cloaked wizards moved closer to her, tightening their ranks.

Ron cleared his throat. Gone were the familiar lines of laughter around his eyes; in their stead was a cold impassivity that shook her to her core. "Hermione Jean Granger, you are under arrest for murder and high treason against Our Lord."

With a lazy flick of his wrist that was uncharacteristically suave for him, her wand flew into his waiting hand and ropes wound tightly around her wrists, binding them behind her back. Unrepentant scoffs echoed around the circle as she cried out, the broken bones grinding together as a sadistic smile corrupts the lines of Ron's familiar face.

He stalked forward, heavy booted feet kicking up plumes of dust, and at long last, Ron's gaze locked on hers—glassy and emotionless. The warm blue eyes that she'd come to know—come to love—were gone. A cruel sneer curved the hard line of his lips upward. "Don't worry about being too gentle with her. The Dark Lord wants her alive, but he never said anything about leaving her unharmed."

His words left Hermione's knees weak, and she slumped to the ground. The last thing she saw before her vision went black was Ron rolling up his sleeve to press his wand to a Dark Mark.


	2. The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to make this short and sweet today. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all your kind words about the first chapter of this fic. I was absolutely blown away by the initial response—I've never had a fic reach over fifty followers in the first chapter! I'm overjoyed that so many of you enjoyed it. I hope you continue to! It made my entire week to hear your excited responses to Chapter 1. I am forever indebted to LadyKenz and MsMerlin13 for their alpha work and tofadeawayagain for her beta work. Without further ado, here is Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – _The Devil_**

Hermione woke in a dark room, the damp air hanging around her. She shuddered as she heard the scurrying and squeaking of rats, and her eyes squinted against the darkness trying to make sense of her surroundings. She noticed it was lighter than the Malfoy dungeons she was used to; a miniscule orange lantern lit it, but the room carried a dank stench that made her shiver with disgust. Perhaps they'd put her in a cellar?

She sat up quickly, taking inventory of injuries. Her hand was still broken, and she hissed when the ruined appendage flopped forward and rubbed against the scratchy material of her sweater. It was unlikely that she’d receive any treatment for it—better to let the prisoners suffer as much as possible—so she cradled it against her chest in a weak attempt to dull the pain.

Her beaded bag was gone, likely discarded along the footpath in the ambushed village and although she had expected it, her wand and knife were nowhere to be found. Everything she owned was well and truly lost; only the clothes on her back and her frazzled mind would keep her company. How long she would be allowed to remain cognisant was a question she tried not to entertain. Instead, she strained to focus on the few sounds she could make out in the eerily still room.

Somewhere above her, she could hear music playing over the faint _plop plop plop_ of a leaky pipe. Her weakened senses couldn’t make out exactly what was playing, but she knew enough about wizarding music to know that it was likely a live performance—perhaps someone Voldemort had captured, if she had to guess by the ungraceful starts and stops. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the shake of the player’s hands on the keys as they wondered which note would be their last. She shuddered. She would likely soon be up there amongst the followers, chattel on display for the Dark Lord, her own hands shaking and her mind crying out for the end.

She paced the length of her cell, counting the bars in order to avoid the racing thoughts of her own demise and the pitter-patter of scurrying feet of whatever vermin whose home she had been unceremoniously dumped in. Still, her mind circled back to their purpose in keeping her here, prisoner in the cellar of this halfway home for the damned. Certainly they knew their plan for her. She’d destroyed the light when she’d extinguished their hope by killing the Order’s darling leader, and Voldemort wanted her dead for robbing him of a chance to gain another puppet, the one that would destroy the cause. She was hated by both sides of the war, and that left her woefully alone. No one would rescue her this time.

Would they toy with her like a hand-me-down doll? Would they each take a turn with her, use her until they had their fill, and then send her on to the next until she was cast aside? Or would they simply torture her? She’d been the recipient of their torture before, and she was none-too-eager to receive it again. Would they make the murder blissfully quick or would she have to suffer? She wasn’t foolish enough to hope that it would be quick; if it was, she would never have made it out of the village’s square. The dripping of the water, the hiss as it became a solid stream on the walls reminded her of the snake—Nagini. As the image of the red-eyed serpent ran through her mind, Hermione involuntarily shivered and prayed to whatever Muggle or Wizarding god that was listening not to let them feed her to that bloody snake.

Of all the macabre fates that she could think of, one stood above the others. Rape, murder, and torture were the standard for traitors and Muggle sympathisers in the Dark Lord’s regime. But for those who still represented a spark of hope, the few rebels who still existed in the shadows, he reserved special treatment.

She may have murdered Harry Potter, but she was still useful to the Dark Lord as a puppet, completely susceptible to his whims. Compelled to do the darkest of his biddings, she would scream and rot away whilst locked within her own mind, forced to bear witness to the death and destruction wrought by her own hand.

If the Dark Lord allowed her to live, Hermione would spend the rest of her days as one of his most faithful and cruel Death Eaters: the Vehme, as they had taken to calling themselves.

Magical politics had always been mired in inferiority, and the group thrived on the power that was afforded them. Having existed in the shadows of Muggle society for so long, many craved the freedom that Voldemort offered. It was intoxicating to them, the ability to practice their magic without fear of punishment if caught. Muggles were to be killed on sight, and Voldemort had instituted a reward system for catching and killing them.

Voldemort had named them the Vehme, modeled after the old German group of the same name that Hermione had learned of in primary school and again in History of Magic. Ruthless killers, they existed in the shadows of society, slipping in and out of the Muggle world and killing on command. Over each battered corpse, a Dark Mark stained the sky in triumph, calling others to celebrate the death of more Muggle filth alongside them.

The Vehme wore crimson robes to designate their status; they were the powerful ones, the lawless wizards, near-vigilante killers that snuffed out life for the thrill of it.

Voldemort had learned in the first war not to identify who was among his most powerful to avoid painting a target on their backs; he’d lost far too many followers and allowed only his sharpest to don the crimson cloaks, those smart enough to weave a tapestry of lies so fine they could escape near anything. They cast spells darker than anyone had ever seen—hexes that froze the blood in veins, jinxes that would incinerate a wizard without leaving a trace behind, and the forgotten unforgivables based in blood magic that made a Crucio feel like a tickle.

Hermione prided herself on the fact that she was not scared of much—a positive influence of her Gryffindor traits—but the Vehme? _They terrified her_. They were the embodiment of the darkest parts of dark magic, and one didn’t return once beckoned into its depths.

A door slammed somewhere in the dark. Hermione reared back against the wall, scrambling along the floor for something, anything, to protect herself with, but found the floor of her cell bare. She angled her good arm toward the cell door, determined that she would defend herself however she was able to. A litwand bobbed down a flight of steep, stone stairs across the hall from her cell.

The light came to a stop in front of her, and she could feel the eyes of the wand’s wielder study her for a moment, as if assessing her weakness. With a sudden flick, the cell door clanked open and swung inward. Hermione shifted her weight, ready to attack.

The wand tip dropped toward the floor, and the light reflecting off the filthy water illuminated the person standing before her.  Her heart stuttered once, twice, three times before it began to rattle against her rib cage in a desperate bid for escape. A cold sweat broke out over forehead, and she tried to press further into the stone wall, seeking a refuge that was not there, until she was backed into the corner. The mocking trill of a chilling laugh followed her into the crevice.

 _Voldemort_.

“So, the Brightest Witch of Her Age finds herself a caged animal.” He stepped into the space, filling it with his presence. “No Dumbledore to save you now, your saviour dead. Tell me—” his words washed over her, a heavy blanket of dread that left gooseflesh in its wake, “—how does it feel to know that the Potter boy’s death was your fault? Not to mention that you drove the young Mister Weasley right into my hands.”

She whimpered, feeling the dark magic rippling off of him—the satisfaction of having her in his grasp at last was palpable in the depth of the darkness that licked against her skin. Voldemort loomed over her as he prowled into the cell and flicked his wrist. A driving pain bore into her forehead, a brilliant, red flare of light illuminating behind her eyelids, and she cried out, dropping to her knees.

“Did you know he tried to return to you? Ah, Mister Weasley felt so much guilt that he turned you all away. I’ve never seen a wizard wail so much for someone that wasn’t family as I did when he heard of Potter’s death.” He cocked his head to peer at her, the feral crimson in his snake-like eyes glinting in the dim light of the cellar. “He wanted to kill you himself, but the Weasleys never were ones for rational thought. Had they been, they would have joined me in the first war.”

“So I had to rein him in, and when that didn’t work, well...” Another flick of the wrist sent a sharper pain through her, like a thin blade designed to cut to the quick, for the briefest moment. “That’s what it felt like for him. That’s what he felt every time I delved into his mind, until I realized the one thing that would make him truly mine, forever.” He waved his hand and the pain stopped. “Harry Potter was dead. You, Miss Granger, were on the run and trusted by no one. And he was _mine_ ; finally, the Wizarding World knew fear.” The manic gleam in his eyes drove Hermione’s heart into overdrive; while her breath came out in desperate puffs, the aftereffects of whatever spell he had used on her sent shockwaves of phantom pain through her body, her fingers trembling.

He paced the length of the cell, and Hermione fought to keep her composure. Gritting her teeth, she forced her chin upright to stare him down. No matter how scared she was, she refused to let him see her shake.

“I would have liked to make you useful without an Unforgiveable. The Imperius curse requires too much direction, and your brilliant mind would undoubtedly be put to waste,” he mused, long fingers running down the ridged length of the Elder Wand that she had watched him gather from Harry’s limp body before she had Apparated away. “But you appeared to be too lionhearted to tame without it.” It wasn’t a compliment; the words were a sharp reminder of the grace she had fallen from. I'm sure the men would pay hundreds of Galleons to be with you. Just imagine!" He smiled wickedly down at her. "'Defile Dumbledore's Dearest, the Gryffindor Golden Girl' – isn't that what they used to call you? Now, they don't call you much of anything other than _traitor_."

He stepped closer to her, lowering his flattened nose over the tangled mass of her hair and inhaling deeply. “No matter. I’d thought we’d find a use for you, perhaps in the brothel after a decent bath. ” The words were laced with acid, designed to pierce her armor in all the right places.

Hermione was resolutely silent, though she could not retain the stubborn tear that leaked from the corner of her eye, betraying her. Voldemort cooed mockingly. He fisted his hand in her hair and wrenched her neck back to look him in the eye as he wiped the moisture away with the tip of his wand, forcing just enough magic into its length to seal a scratch across her face in his mockery of comfort. With a dark chuckle, he shoved her into the corner she had backed herself into and lowered his head to bite sharply at her exposed earlobe. At her cry of pain, he growled, “Or maybe I could make you my personal Mudblood to show everyone just how far you have fallen. Oh, yes, I’m sure I could make an exception to break the wizarding world’s precious Mudblood.”

Hermione froze. As tears flowed freely down her face, she felt his hand snaking downward. It was only as his cold fingers breached the hem of her t-shirt that she began to fight back, thrashing against the wall as a litany of _nononono_ screamed inside her head.

A loud clang and reverberating footsteps echoed in the room, and Hermione foolishly hoped that her savior had come at last, that someone from the Order had heard her silent cry for help and had somehow made their way to this unknown manor to rescue her. The noise made Voldemort back away, though his eyes promised this would not be the last she saw of him.

Heavy steps thundered down the stairs, a deliberate warning that someone was coming. Hermione imagined that they were announcing their presence to avoid seeing something distasteful, reminding her again that she was nothing more than human garbage to these people. Despite her desire to cower into the corner and retreat into the darkest depths of her mind to avoid the horror of Voldemort’s presence, she stood firm, trying to staunch the flow of tears.

The masked figure stepped into the wand light. Even before he removed his cover, Hermione knew who it was. The lithe body in expensive, sweeping robes. The graceful walk. The pale hand that slid out from the billowing sleeve to remove the silver mask. The boy—now man—that had tormented her at school, the same one who she had so hoped would come to realize that his upbringing was nothing more than a corrosive lie. The boy she had defended so valiantly against Harry’s obsessive criticism. Blond hair spilled forth as the mask cleared his face, a cruel smile spreading across his cheeks. And so her undoing would be at the hands of the person she had once loathed, of whom she had once hoped for better.

Draco Malfoy.

Better than she would have initially imagined, but she would have preferred her death to be at the hands of someone less familiar. She knew his particular brand of torture: the psychological jabs that rendered her raw and vulnerable, the quips that slid beneath ribs and lodged themselves in the meat of her heart, the marrow of her bones. He’d strip her bare with a smirk and flay her just to watch her squirm before he laid a hand on her. She tried to reign in the shudder in with a sharp breath, but Voldemort’s widening grin let her know she had been unsuccessful. Voldemort stepped back into her space and ran his cold, paper-thin hand against her cheek in a mockery of a caress.

“I think young Mister Malfoy would enjoy watching you break,” Voldemort purred. “And I could ruin you. For yourself— _for others_. When I’m done with you, you’ll be nothing but a shell of yourself, slave to my every command. You’ll crave the pain, the degradation, the ache that only I can provoke. And everyone will lament just how far Gryffindor’s princess fell.” His caressing hand became a vice, and it wrapped around her throat. “Tell me, Miss Granger, do you remember the spell that you were hit with when you were on your fool's errand to save the Potter boy?”

Her heart caught in her throat, remembering the swirling mass of black light that had enveloped her, Harry, and Ron as Harry pleaded with Ron to just think about what he was doing, that this wasn’t what he wanted, that they could save his family together. The cruel lilt of Voldemort’s smile as he’d whispered something and her whole world went black flashed through her mind and her blood ran cold.

“You’re stronger than I gave you credit for, little girl. Not many people can fight a curse like that, but you continue to impress. You’ll make a good soldier.” His other hand reached up and carded through her tangled curls, catching on the twigs and brambles still caught within its snare from her wild fight with the Vehme. With disgust and fear wrestling for dominance and quickly overtaking her, she fought to calm her racing thoughts. Her pride was the only thing that kept her upright, and she summoned as much of it as she could and spat in his face. She watched in grim satisfaction as her saliva hit its mark and slowly slid down his cheek.

To her dismay, the cruel smile only sharpened and his fingers tightened minutely on her neck for a moment before he threw her to the ground. She watched him trace the length of the floor to stand beside Malfoy near the perimeter of her cage. The light from his wand seared her eyes, and she tried not to focus on the fact that this might very well be one of the last times she was able to lift her head of her own accord.

She refused to let the tears spill over her eyelids. She’d fought too long and too hard to die in the cellar of one of Voldemort’s hovels with tears in her eyes. She forced herself upright and rested her aching back against the wall opposite Voldemort and Malfoy, both of whom were peering at her with a veiled layer of disgust and intrigue. Darkness beckoned in the back of her mind, but she steeled herself against it, unsure whether she would emerge from it again.

Voldemort wrapped an arm around Malfoy, an awkward embrace that she was sure meant to communicate his position of power in the situation. Though Malfoy wore the red robes of Voldemort’s most trusted, he still was under close surveillance — the snake-like man held a tight leash on all of his followers.

It was almost admirable, the way he was able to command a lead so flawlessly that his followers trusted him almost implicitly. She would have hazarded a guess that none of them knew just how sharp the razor’s edge they walked on was. The slightest slip and he would forsake them all without a second thought. And Ron--

Ron loved the power, but she knew that he was also the most at risk, the outlier of the whole group that would fall victim to Voldemort’s changing whims the easiest. His quick temper would be his undoing, and Hermione latched onto the thought, her life raft in the sea of uncertainty that her life had become since she had been caught. When she finally clawed her way to her feet, her ripped nails snagging on the uneven wall, she met Voldemort’s stare, entirely ignoring the wizard beside him.

For Ron, she would fight until she found a way to reach him through whatever veil Voldemort had shrouded him in.

For Harry, she would destroy the monster that had destroyed their world.

And for herself? She would claw her way out of the pit of darkness he’d thrust her into if it was the last thing she’d do.

Malfoy cocked his head at her, analyzing her stance, and she felt the darkness rearing up from where it slept in the back of her mind. Its tendrils coiled slowly forward at the beckoning in his eyes, and she fought it back, beating it into submission as sweat broke on her brow. Voldemort dipped his head in a parody of respect. His parting words reverberated in the air around her as he left her cell with a clang. “You’ll learn not to defy me, Mudblood. It will be a pleasure breaking you. Teach her a lesson, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild cliffie has appeared! Let me know what you think.


	3. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, loves! I'm back with Chapter 3 today and a bit of a heads up: I'm moving next weekend, so I might miss an update, but it will come! It will, however, likely be on a different day. I hope this doesn't deter anyone from following along but will understand if it does. I do have quite a lot prewritten if that helps! I've also received some notes about this being slow, and I'm sorry that it is; there's quite a lot of background to set, but I promise it will pick up.
> 
> Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13. Beta love to tofadeawayagain. These ladies are phenomenal, and I appreciate them so.

**Chapter 3 – _The Tower_**

 

Silence reigned in the cell, though Hermione couldn’t help counting the distant drips of water, the loudest sound in the darkness of the cellar. If she just counted long enough, she could forget that the drips now marked the limited heartbeats that she would have left. All her fighting for nothing.

Though she waited with bated breath, Malfoy remained motionless near the entrance of her cell, so she finally gathered her wits enough to face him. To her surprise, he wasn’t watching her at all. Instead, his gaze traced the mask in his hands, resolutely  _ not _ looking at her.

Hermione’s eyes traced over his face. Despite her fear, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes stood out against the gaunt hollows of his cheeks and too-sharp cheekbones. The silence stretched between them, and Hermione fought the urge to fidget. If she had a wand, she could have stunned him; she could have made it to the stairs. But after reaching the stairs, her mind stuck. Her imagination ran through the various horrors she would see once she passed the barrier that was the door. No, she wouldn’t be able to get out of this dungeon without help.

Malfoy’s shifting form pulled her from her desperate thoughts of escape. He stepped forward out of the shadows, his steely eyes tracking her movement. Without warning, she felt him pry at the Occlumency walls that she had erected in her mind. Despite her extensive practice with Harry, the days in the cell without food and water shattered her ability to concentrate long enough to build up her extensive shields, and he broke through with ease.

Memory after memory assaulted her, and she was powerless against him as he rifled through each one. She couldn’t hear his thoughts, but she knew what he was searching for: the one memory that would hurt her above all others. She willed herself to keep her mind blank, but her mind betrayed her. Her racing heart and fierce protectiveness of the memories led him straight to them, and he drove in without remorse.

Hermione couldn’t contain the tears as memory after memory of her childhood spilled forth. Her mother’s smiling laughter and her father’s goofy grin as they unveiled the bike they had bought her for her fifth birthday. The wide smile grin her father had given her when she’d lost her first tooth and insisted that they put it under her pillow for the tooth fairy. Watching from the stairs as her parents danced together in their sitting room long after she should have been asleep in bed. Their excited faces when McGonagall had delivered her Hogwarts letter. Fierce hugs they gave her just before she boarded the Hogwarts Express and their proud waves as the train left the platform.

She couldn’t keep him from tearing through her most treasured memories. His cold methodical approach tainted each one he wrenched forth, until he reached the most recent, the most painful memories that she kept locked away at all times.

Clenching her fists, she sobbed as she was forced to relive the exact moment she Obliviated her parents. Tears streamed down her face when he circled behind her and laughed quietly in her ear.

"Oh, Granger, how horrible it must have been to realize that despite all your efforts, nothing could save your filthy Muggle parents." He breathed over her shoulder, and she shook as anger and sorrow coursed through her body. With what felt like a quick rip, he jerked her most painful memory forward and she fell to her knees with tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

No matter how hard she had tried, she hadn’t been able to keep her parents safe. Following Dumbledore’s death, she’d made sure to get to her parents before anyone else, Apparating as soon as she’d stepped foot off the Hogwarts grounds. She’d planted the idea for Monika and Wendell Wilkins to leave as quickly and quietly as possible, but for some reason they had delayed. 

And they had paid for it.

A nagging feeling begged her to check in on her parents once more. Despite Hermione's cynical view of Divination, something called her to their home that day. Call it intuition or divine intervention—or maybe she'd felt their absence from the world deep in her soul; she'd never be sure.

The stillness of the too-quiet afternoon should have been her first indication. Nothing moved on the street; no buzzing bugs or singing birds could be heard. Yet, the sun had still shone above, and Hermione had fiercely hoped that they’d escaped, living blissfully in their new reality without the knowledge of magic burdening their minds.

Walking up to the house, Hermione had felt the inky tendrils of Dark Magic kiss her skin. Adrenaline and instinct coursed through her and she’d surreptitiously slipped her wand from her pocket. 

The door was intact, closed and whole, but as she’d stepped closer, she could see the splinters that littered the step where it had been blown off its hinges. Her hands had trembled as she pulled her wand out and aimed it at the house, casting a _Hominum_ _Revelio_ charm to see if anyone still lingered in the house. When no signatures of human life returned, she stepped carefully forward and pulled the door aside.

The sight that had greeted her had sent her heart into the pits of her stomach. Her childhood home had been ripped to shreds: photos were torn off the walls, and deep gashes had been dug into the walls with some kind of dark spellwork. The air rippled with dark magic, shivers inching down her spine, and it was as though something had tugged her forward. Her stomach had churned with dread, and her wand had slipped in her slick palms.

She’d found her father first, and an anguished cry spilled from her mouth as she clenched her lids shut from the scene. He’d been in the middle of his morning coffee, the newspaper haphazardly discarded on the floor where he’d likely stood at the sound of the door crashing inward. He hadn’t had a chance to fight back—he never would have as a Muggle—but it was clear that they had taken their time with him. Deep cuts littered his body, weeping blood onto her mother's favorite rug. As she’d stepped forward, she noticed rope burns branded into his arms and a wave of nausea rolled over her—he'd been tied up and tortured. Hermione couldn't stomach the thought of for how long. His eyes were still open and she could see his tear tracks through the blood that was caked on his face from the large cuts on his forehead. He had died with his hand extended toward the photograph on his side table.

She’d choked on a sob when she noticed that the photo featured her with a toothy grin. Disneyland, their first trip to America when she was a child.

Time had slowed as realisation crashed into her, her eyes darting to each photo in the room as her stomach churned violently and she swayed on the spot. Someone had restored his memories when they were torturing him. He’d died knowing that his daughter was out there somewhere while these monsters tormented him. Tears had raced down her freckled cheeks, and with a shaking hand, she’d eased his eyelids down. Her grief had overwhelmed her when she noticed that his body was still leaching warmth. He hadn’t been gone long.

With a whispered, “I love you,” and a final squeeze of his fingers, she’d left the room in search of her mother.

Another twist of Malfoy’s wand dragged more of the memory from the depths of her subconscious, and she gave up her resolute silence to beg. The words that spilled out of her mouth weren’t coherent, but she knew that the words “Malfoy,” and “Please, no,” had become her mantra, but he still pushed onward, the vestiges of his grim satisfaction bleeding through the connection that he had forged with his Legilimency, forcing her to witness her worst memory over again despite her desperate pleas to stop.

The destruction of the house had led Hermione to her. The Death Eaters had known exactly what they were doing. A clear path had lain between where they had and had not been. The kitchen remained intact when she raced past it toward the staircase. Pictures and glass were strewn over the staircase as she ascended them, and she’d swallowed the knot in her throat. Whatever horror awaited her was combated by a tiny flame of hope that lingered in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, her mother had escaped.

She’d continued down the hallway, past her old bedroom, past the loo, and into her parents’ master suite. Their door, too, had been blown off its hinges, and Hermione’s legs carried her forward of their own accord even in the forced memory, remembering her need to know what lay beyond the doorway despite the horror she was sure to face. Her heart raced in time with the remembered day even as sweat broke out on her forehead and her lungs ached. 

Her parents’ room had always been tidy; everything had its place. It was where she had gotten her need to be meticulously clean at all times. But that day, the room had been a mess of debris. The bed had been blown to bits, and mattress stuffing scattered over the floor. Only a splash of golden ringlets, the bold colour striking against the pure white mattress stuffing alerted her to her mother’s prone body near what had once been the master bed.

Again, Hermione tried to force him out of the memory, fighting Malfoy harder as he wrenched each heartbreakingly vivid moment forward, pushing against his presence in her mind. She thrashed against him, trying valiantly to rebuild her walls, brick by mental brick, to force him out of her mind. Hermione tried to remember Harry’s advice, but the shrill scream of his death echoed in her mind. Malfoy wrapped his hand around her throat, squeezing tightly as he pushed past her flimsy Occlumency shield.

She’d approached her mother and dropped to her knees. With a shuddering sob, she had slowly cleared the debris off her. Piece by piece, she had uncovered her mother’s broken body. Dust had gathered in the fine lines of the wrinkles around her eyes, and her sleek blonde hair had been woven into a nest of blood and gore where Helen—because she was  _ Helen _ and not Monika anymore—had been thrown backwards and her head had connected with the corner of the boudoir at the blast that had blown the door inward. 

Her mother’s face was swollen beyond recognition, large chunks of her hair had been ripped out, and her mouth left gaping. Words had been carved crudely into her exposed flesh, but Hermione had been too grief stricken to look; even now, her heart felt like it was in her mouth, the desperate wailing in the room distantly recognisable  as her own. 

Instead, she’d let the tears fall as she brushed the hair from her mother’s face and whispered profuse apologies to her as she’d shifted her body to cradle her in her lap. In tandem with her memories, Hermione bowed her head and let her sorrow pour out. Gut wrenching sobs tore from her throat, and Hermione felt something in her heart rend all over again at her mother’s still form. Of all the things she’d promised to do in this war, she’d broken her most sacred promise: to keep her parents safe. Unintelligible whimpers had accompanied the sobs as she had brushed the hair back from her mother’s ruined face and wrapped her arms around her. 

After a few moments, she’d heard a wet wheeze and whipped her head upward at the doorway. She should have known that they had been waiting for her, to finish her off, but the threshold was empty. Confused, she whipped her head about the room, spotting no one. It was only when she heard another weak wheeze that she’d glanced down.

Despite her better judgment, her heart leapt when she realized that the wheezing was her mother’s. Somehow, despite everything that had happened to her, her mother was still alive. Hermione sobbed out her mother’s name and reached down to clasp her hand.

“I’m here, Mum. It’s Hermione. I’m here,” she’d choked out, but she had tried to imbue it with as much strength as she could. Despite her swollen lids, her mother’s eyes had fluttered open. Hermione nearly lost her tenuous grasp on her composure when she saw the bloodied orbs, instinctively knowing that Helen could see nothing from her ruined sockets.

“Her—mione?” her mother rasped. Hermione’s grasp on her hand had tightened.

“Hermione…  _ run _ ,” her mother whispered. Her squelching breath came quicker, and Hermione knew she was fighting the blood flooding her lungs. Hermione ignored her mother’s request, instead scrambling for the little beaded bag that was her lifeline. She summoned the bottle of Dittany that she knew was within, but it was no use. It was empty.

Time was running out and Hermione hadn’t been able to think past the sobs crowding her lungs and forcing themselves out of her throat. As her mother’s wheezing breath became more lethargic, she’d heard the heavy boom of the front door blasting inward once more.

They had returned.

In her panic, she gathered her mother into her arms and made to spin on the spot, to Disapparate away from the house, but she was stuck in an invisible set of wards she had not previously cast. Her strangled sob echoed through the house, alerting them to her location.

Her mother’s grip on her hand drew her eyes downward, though everything had a blurry sheen to it through her tears. Impossibly, a weak smile had spread across her mother’s face, breaking Hermione’s heart in two. In an impossibly quiet voice, Helen had whispered, “Go, dear. I love you,” and slowly exhaled until her chest was still.

Hermione’s heart snapped in half and she reeled backwards from her mother’s lifeless body until she backed into the window ledge. Footsteps thunderied up the stairs, down the hall, and just outside the door as she cast a  _ Bombarda  _ at the window. With no semblance of grace, she’d leapt over the edge and crashed to the ground below. Still catching her stolen breath, she had run as fast as her feet could carry her, dodging curses from the Death Eaters in her parent’s ruined house behind her.

As the memory faded, she felt the claws of Legilimency leave her mind. Her knees no longer able to support her weight, she collapsed sideways to the floor, cheek hitting the cold stone and tears mingling with the dirt, grime, and what smelled like piss. Footsteps echoed away from her, and she heard the gate clang shut. She was not alone though.  His gaze bore into her from between the slats in the bars, and she fought the urge to shudder as the foreign feeling washed over her. 

There was something there, if she just looked hard enough—

He blinked and it was gone. His footsteps faded away and she was again left to the company of the rats.

It was hours before she saw anyone again, and the pain from her broken hand and the depth of darkness in her cell overwhelmed her. Time became meaningless. She embraced the ringing in her ears, her brain’s attempt to rectify that silence lest she truly drift into the beckoning call of the darkness; she could feel it crouched within her, waiting for its opportunity to strike. 

She lingered at the margins of lucidity. Sometimes the ghost of forgotten laughter beckoned her from the gulf, and other times she drifted in the quiet space between moments, a peaceful respite from the insistent death knell of her slowing heartbeat and the tightening grasp of whatever resided within her.  
Days passed and Malfoy made irregular appearances. It didn’t take long for her to begin to wonder if she’d hallucinated Malfoy’s visits just to escape the monotony of the cell or if it was indeed her sordid reality. Every time he entered the cell, he tore through the tatters of her mind repeatedly, defiling her conscious with grim determination. Cherished moments were fodder for his emotional warfare, and she sank into the promise of mortality, praying to whatever Muggle god that was listening to just _let it end._  
His low voice cut through the silence of the room, rubbing raw against her skin as he stared at her from beyond the bars. “I suggest you do as you’re asked the next time the Dark Lord calls on you.”

The darkness consumed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Thank you for reading. Xx


	4. 25 March 1998 - Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves! I apologize for missing last week's update; I moved to Michigan-approximately twelve hours from where I was previously! The past week was crazy, but I hope this chapter will make up for a little bit of it. This one changes speeds a bit, taking us back in time to find out some answers. I hope you enjoy. Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13 and beta love to tofadeawayagain! These ladies rock.

Hermione drifted in and out of consciousness. Draco wasn't the only one who came to sift through her memories, to make sure that her mind stayed shattered. She'd stopped marking the difference between the men who tore their way into her mind night after night, her dreams and the Vehme's forced violations bleeding into one continuous onslaught. The memories were a painful reminder of all she had lost, of who she had lost, yet she was powerless to stop their assault.

When Ron arrived and trained his wand on her, she surrendered to the memories before she heard his muttered " _Legilimens_."

**25 March 1998 - Morning**

In a decrepit building in the Harringay warehouse district, a radio flickered to life. Harry, Hermione, and Ron sprung from their cots, instantly awake and ignoring the creaking of the other cots.

The group was a motley crew. Most of them had fled Hogwarts the previous spring when Dumbledore had died. The rest had stumbled across the group where they skulked in the dark shadows of the wizarding world. All of them understood the dire circumstances they existed in.

Night after night, as the radio clicked to life, they gathered around it – this eclectic group of friends, banding together to rally as a group and wait for news. The Weasley twins, Cormac McLaggen, Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, Lavender Brown, Neville Longbottom, Ron, Harry, and Hermione.

Hermione shuddered at how seamless the regime change had been each night as they waited for any reports from others. Dread had become her constant companion, and she no longer hid her flinch when the radio sprang to life.

None of them did.

Hermione had felt her heart shatter with a dull ache when she saw the photos in  _The Daily Prophet_ , and she would have scoffed at the predictability of it all—the vile bubblegum woman next to Voldemort's dark pallor at the head of the Great Hall—but the heading stopped any laughter that would have managed to escape her agape mouth: "Hogwarts to be Repurposed as Magical Enforcement Institution."

They all had sat in silence, all of them at a loss for words. Hermione had opened her mouth several times to say something,  _anything_ , but words failed her.

For all intents and purposes, pure-blood dogma was at the heart of every piece of instruction. Students were trained in Unforgiveables and centuries-old curses. Hogwarts was no longer safe.

The article had gone on to note that each student was forced to submit to a test determining their magical lineage. Anyone considered less than half-blood was immediately kicked out of the institution. Professors who opposed the ideology of the new institution were fired or tortured for their audacity to criticize the regime.

Hermione had hurled the paper into the fire with tears in her eyes.

No one spoke of the things they saw or heard, but Hermione stared up at the ceiling of the shack every evening, listening to their silent thrashing and muffled cries. The rag-tag group suffered in the darkness and despite desperately wanting to, Hermione was unable to help them bear the pain in the light of day, and so she shouldered their grief in the dark of night.

The radio crackled and popped for a few moments before a voice issued from the old speakers. Though she couldn't place it, something about the voice struck at her with its familiarity. Its sentiment was clear: there was a small, underground uprising against Voldemort, and the individual on the other side of the frequency needed to know if there were others out there.

They didn't give clues to their location, but they did indicate that they would know, somehow, that any groups would be trying to contact them.

Harry and Ron began to concoct a plan immediately, but something about the communication sent a shiver up her spine – suspicion, a noose around her neck. Something didn't feel right—why would a group that survived only in the shadows reach out into the wind for supporters that may or may not exist?

She spoke her concerns to Harry, but he shrugged her off. It was a sign that someone else was out there, he said, and it had breathed new life into their group.

Hermione swallowed her worries, unable to argue with Harry when he made valid points. The group, which had been lethargic for so long, chattered amongst each other with a new fervor that she hadn't seen among them since before the Triwizard Tournament, before Cedric's death, before the reality of the impending war had crashed down upon them all.

Each evening after that, they took shifts to monitorthe little radio, and finally, a month after the first message, they received another. Four words this time, a place and a time: Hogsmeade Village. Two weeks.

Hermione felt the same thrill of nerves that she had with the first broadcast. It didn't feel right. It felt like a trap. When she spoke her concerns, this time to the group, she'd been met with scoffs.

"It's our only chance, 'Mione. We have to give it a go!" Ron's incredulous voice echoed in the room. "We can't keep living like this! We haven't had a decent meal in weeks and—"

"There he goes, thinking with only his stomach again," Ginny interrupted.

"— _and_  we could add more to our numbers." Ron ignored his sister. "We need people, Hermione. We need to fight back. We can't keep hiding out in whatever hovel we can find. hey'll find us. In case you weren't aware, every last one of us have our faces plastered on wanted posters on every corner in London."

So she acquiesced.

They planned for days, going over every aspect they could think of, trying to come up with the smartest plan of attack should they be ambushed. Dean created a hand-drawn mapof Hogsmeade, and each of them had been given a post.

They would Apparate in pairs, each one arriving at different points in the the tiny village, and they'd work counterclockwise until they met at the Shrieking Shack. Hermione and Ginny would Apparate closest and arrive first, remaining Disillusioned outside to act as guards.

Hermione knew something was wrong when she and Ginny Apparated to the edge of the village. The wind through the trees was the only obstacle in the night, and the quiet in the village set the curly-haired witch on edge. Snow crunched beneath their shoes as they walked cautiously toward the decrepit old building, and their breath puffed out in white clouds before them. Suddenly, a ripple in the space around them, a flash of red light, and a high-pitched scream behind them was their only indication of the ambush.

Cloaks billowed to life out of nowhere and surrounded them. Hit by a swift  _Incarcerous_ , she went down as the wand was wrenched from her hand by another's  _Accio_. Hitting the ground with a muffled grunt, she felt a slash rend her cheek from a sharp rock in the dirt of the old footpath. A trickle of warmth ran down her chin, and she cursed herself for going along with this gods-blasted plan. She should have known better, should have made them listen.

Several other pops of Apparition indicated the arrival of the Vehme, their crimson cloaks swirling about them as they threw her companions to the ground. Hermione tried to wrestle herself over onto her back so that she might see who else had been caught, but a heavy heel in the middle of her back halted her. Her captor bent low over her, boot digging into her ribs, and snarled, "Sit still, filthy Mudblood." Her blood ran cold at the voice.

Malfoy. She'd had a sinking suspicion it would be him upon the first shouted spell. The voice on the radio, its aristocratic lilt a little too discerning for her ears not to have picked up on, should have given it away. There was no question about it now; they were one and the same. A trap, just like she'd thought it was. They would die. All of them.

He pushed her further down with his boot, dirt sticking to the thin layer of sweat that had sprung to her brow in the brief fight. She tried to rid her mind of all the things she'd miss: her nineteenth birthday, graduating from Hogwarts, properly tending to her mother and father's last rights, falling in love.

All her hopes disintegrated as she heard more pained grunts from her friends hitting the ground alongside her.

The heel lifted from her back, and she sucked in a greedy breath, trying to blink the black spots from her eyes.

From the corner of her eye, someone wrestled upward out of their bindings only to be shoved back into the ground. Boots flew, and cracking of bones echoed in the circle. Whoever had tried to escape was sobbing freely, but she could hear the blood clogging their throat and stoppering the tears.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her, crawling up her spine and settling low in her stomach, a knot of nerves forcing their way into her throat. The analytical side of her mind forced the nerves back, shoving her foreboding into a box in the back of her mind, stilling her shaking hands in the ropes that bound them. Panic wouldn't get them out of this alive.

With a sudden jerk, Hermione was wrenched upward, shoulders screaming in their sockets. On instinct, she bucked against the wizard, smiling in grim satisfaction when she felt her head connect with Malfoy's nose. The crunch and resulting curses were promising, but her hope was dashed when a cold hand wound around her throat. Her eyes met steely grey irises, and her thrashing stopped at the cold fury within despite the satisfaction that his blood-coated face. She tried not to let her terror betray her when the point of a wand stabbed into her throat.

"You would do well to stop fighting, Granger, lest I decide to kill one of your friends to make an example of you." He spat blood at her feet before speaking to the others. "You know where to take them." He tightened his grip around her throat, and she saw stars before they whirled away into the night.

Their feet connected to the ground with a thud, and the bile that threatened stayed put only because of Malfoy's hand clamped tightly around her throat. Malfoy's disgusted growl reverberated through her body when he threw her to the ground.

Her eyes danced over surfaces unfamiliar to her, not daring to pause so she might find a way out. Gilded suits of armour decorated either side of a fireplace, and portraits of bespectacled men dressed in impeccably tailored robes leered down at the filthy prisoners. Clicking footsteps indicated the approach of someone, and she lifted her head infinitesimally from the floor.

The clicking footsteps came to an abrupt halt, a feminine gasp punctuating the stop. Murmured words were exchanged, so low that Hermione couldn't hear, but she could make out the back of the individual's head over the shoulders of one of the Vehme guarding them.

A blonde and black updo grazed the shoulders of a well-put-together witch. Her impeccable, creamy skin boasted high cheekbones, and long lashes brushed her cheek when she turned to murmer into the Vehme member's ear. Narcissa Malfoy. Mistress of Malfoy Manor. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat for the briefest moment before plunging into the depths of her stomach.

Malfoy Manor. So this is where they would die. She fought an ironic roll of her eyes at its grandeur.

The woman turned to survey the group of captives that had been dumped in her home, and her eyes locked with Hermione's. For the briefest of moments, so quickly that Hermione thought she might have imagined it, Mrs Malfoy's eyes flashed with a deep sadness, sympathy burning in the depths of her eyes. She blinked her gaze away from Hermione's, and, just like that, it was gone.

With pursed lips, Narcissa nodded. She waved her hand over the group. "Get them upright. Lucius will want to view our—" she paused for a moment, once more looking at Hermione with fleeting, profound sadness, "—spoils before we turn them over to our Lord. If you'll excuse me." She dipped into a low curtsy, ever the gracious, pure-blood wife, and swept from the room in a whirlwind of finely-tailored robes.

Hermione was wrenched upward and onto her feet once more. Blood rushed to her head, and she could feel her heartbeat counting down the seconds to her death. She tried not to dwell on the fact that she would likely die in her childhood enemy's home.

How poetic that she was the first student to draw blood from the Malfoy heir and she would be one of the first to have their blood spilled on the immaculate tile of his family home.

She let her eyes wander over the group. They were all in varying states of disarray – clothes wrinkled, blood leaking from open wounds, mouths, ears. Ginny leaned heavily on one leg, her face a garish shade of grey and her left foot turned at an awkward angle, broken, if Hermione had to guess from the way her trousers jutted out to the side. Ginny's eyes fluttered back in her skull, and she promptly crashed to the floor, and the Vehme around her snickered at the fallen girl.

Beside her, Seamus thrashed against his restraints, snarling and fighting to get to Ginny. A flash of purple light sent him crashing to the floor, petrified.

Desperately, she searched the faces of the others around her. Dean. Cormac, barely recognisable through the swelling on his face. A swell of relief crested over her when she realized that Harry wasn't amongst the battered rebels, but her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach when Ron's messy red hair was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Harry had survived, but Ron... Maybe—

She heard the sudden, sharp snap of fingers, and the room was bathed n deathly silence. Her gaze shot to a newcomer, and her blood froze in her veins, her breath halting in her throat.

Lucius Malfoy. The man prowled across the floor, the only indication of his approach the occasional  _snick_  of his walking stick against the floor; his dragonhide boots were much too expensive to make that much noise. He reached Ginny and nudged her with the tip of his walking stick, lip curling in disgust as he revealed the puddle of blood beneath her ruined leg. "Get her out of here. And clean that mess up."

The men on either side of Ginny obliged. hite noise roared in Hermione's ears as she watched. Another of their numbers, lost. Cormac shouted something incoherent, and Lucius rolled his eyes waved his wand to silence the boy. Barely audible over the noise in her head which sounded more and more like screaming,.Lucius barked one last command at the men dragging Ginny from the room. "Keep her alive. For now." They nodded and left the room.

He paced the room, and Hermione's heartbeat echoed in her head. She knew he was talking, saying something, but she couldn't make herself hear the words that fell from his lips. His last words upon Ginny's unceremonious dragging from the room echoed in her head.  _For now_.

Hermione and her friends were bargaining chips, every last one of them. Watching Ginny's limp body be dragged away from her made it real in a way she hadn't seen it as before. This was war. She ought not be surprised, but she couldn't help the terror that roiled through her body.

Her breath stuttered out in short spurts, and Hermione distantly realized that the keening she thought was in her mind was coming from her lungs, her mouth. Her hands shook in their restraints, and she could feel blood running in warm rivulets down her fingertips. If she stood still enough, she was sure she would feel Death creeping up behind her to steal her away into the unforgiving darkness.

Despite her fear of death, she welcomed it. The end of the fighting, the end of the worrying. Death would be a beautiful, peaceful respite to the pain and endless depths of sorrow that defined living in this world.

Lucius came to a stop in front of her, close enough that she could see his hair lifting with each gasping exhalation that escaped her. His lips curled up in cruel sneer as he studied her.

She couldn't help the grim curiosity that gripped her at his proximity. This man—so aristocratic and appearing  _so normal_  despite his proclivities—was responsible for raising the boy that had single-handedly plunged the wizarding world into the destruction that it was currently mired in. Hermione thought she might see hate or insanity lingering in his expression, but what she saw instead drove cold terror into her chest, slipping beneath her ribs and wrapping its barbed hands around her lungs in a vice grip. Though his eyes held a deep hate within them, there was no insanity or any sign of instability. No, instead his eyes shone with a sharp intelligence, a calculating gaze that seemed to miss nothing in his perusal of her. His gaze pierced through Hermione, and before she had a chance to stop, he was ploughing through her defences and delving into her mind.

Pain lanced through her head as he tore through her thoughts, and she was powerless to stop him, as weak and tired as she was. Their late night campfire chats. Strategy discussions with Harry and Ron. Stolen kisses with Ron in the dark. When he had seen his share, he pulled back. With unsteady legs, Hermione sank to the floor, sweat pouring from her forehead. Her stomach churned unsteadily, and she sucked in a quick breath, counting to four before loosening the breath to avoid vomiting on the pristine floors.

The man swept away from her, his graceful gait at odds with their stumbling and broken shuffles, his pristine appearance a mockery of the stench of their unbathed bodies and blood clothes. He whirled back around and opened his palms upward, a facsimile of the gracious host.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor." His voice was both deep and honeyed, a false promise of sincerity ringing below the words. "I trust that you'll avoid sullying the floors to the best of your ability, though some of you—" his eyes cut to Hermione's trembling form "—will have more trouble with that than others."

He leaned on his cane, peering at each of them in boredom. "I'm well aware that Potter is amongst the lot of you—or he was, from intelligence reports. You see—" He flicked his wand. "—I've had a little help in orchestrating your attendance tonight."

From behind her, she heard steady, lumbering footsteps. A gait she was familiar with. Bile rose in her throat, sour and sharp, and she tried to keep the wail that rose up in her contained.

Ron stepped forward, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. A choked sob left Hermione's mouth when he turned around. His eyes were hard, unforgiving, and the dash of sympathy in them when he met Hermione's gaze was quickly stamped out.

"Would you like to explain to them, or shall I?" Lucius purred demurely at Ron, who stepped forward.

Hermione barely heard the words that left his mouth. The Ron she had known for so long was gone. This Ron—he was a stranger. He stood taller. Hatred simmered in the depths of his eyes. He sneered down at them as he told his tale.

"You don't know what it's like, being in everyone's shadow  _all the bloody time._ Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age. Harry Potter, saviour of the bloody wizarding world. Ronald Weasley, overlooked by everyone for his more talented, more famous friends."

He stalked up to her and ran a finger over her jaw, a mockery of sympathy written on his face. "And then we went on the run, and I just knew that you and Harry were shacking up together. You told me you loved me, and then I find the two of you bloody dancing together."

She stared at him, mouth agape. "Ron, it wasn't… we were just dancing! It was just a way to rela—"

Her head snapped to the side with a crack of his palm on her cheek. She saw stars, and a persistent ringing started in her ears as tears sprang to her eyes. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She stared up at him as he turned his back on her and stalked away.

Ron steepled his fingers under his chin and looked around the group. "Do you know what it's like to spend days under the Cruciatus curse? To feel as though the very fibers of your being have been torn apart and sewn back together in the wrong configuration?" He drummed his fingers together, and Hermione fought the urge to turn away and expel the rising sick from her stomach.

Lucius stepped up beside Ron, laying a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. "It's funny that your lot regards us as the twisted individuals when we're the ones who free people from the pain of this existence. Those that found young Mr. Weasley here—well, suffice to say that they were dealt with swiftly and without much regard for their feelings."

Hermione couldn't help the words that spilled from her mouth. "Ron, tell me you didn't do this. This isn't you. Ron, please."

His barking laugh cut her off. "But it is me, 'Mione. It's been me all along. Lucius offered me what you can't; protection for my family, guaranteed support from the Dark Lord, and  _power_. More power than I know what to do with. He's agreed to teach me  _everything,_  magic you'll never dream of knowing. And all I had to do was get you here."

Hermione's heart sank. Her Ron, so caring and loving, ensnared by the one thing that she had for so long believed he had no interest in. He'd been jealous of Harry, yes, but she'd never believed him capable of turning that jealousy into a weapon. And yet here they were.

"It was easy enough. I found my brothers. I tried to send them away, but they were far more concerned about warning you lot." He cocked his head at her, the blank expression chilling. "I did what I had to do. What the Dark Lord  _needed_ me to do. They screamed so loudly while they watched each other bleed. You know they say that twins can communicate on a level that others can't? I think they shared the pain in that moment."

A dark laugh rumbled from Ron's throat. "The hardest part of it all was Imperiusing those two gits into convincing replicas of Fred and George, but I reckon they've served their purpose." With a muttered  _Septumsempra,_ gashes opened across both men's chests. They deflated into each other, and Hermione watched in horror as their blood mingled together on the pristine tile as their features returned. Hogwarts students, young enough that she didn't recognize them.

Hermione could feel her heart in her throat. Her shoulders shook with silent tears, and she winced at the wand stabbing sharply into her neck.

Ron faced her again, the briefest flash of the friend she once knew in his eyes. "I'm working with them 'Mione. I'm going to help them find Harry, and I'll convince him to work with us. We can be together. Finally, we'll all be together again and equal.  _Really_  equal."

She spat at the floor at his feet. Ron's expression twisted; his walls went up and the light extinguished in his eyes.

Lucius chuckled as he intervened, stepping between her and Ron. "You're a powerful witch, Ms. Granger. Undisciplined, yes, but powerful. And we can offer you more." He raised his arms around the room. "No more death for your friends. No more hiding in the shadows. You're a Mudblood, yes, but even they have a place in our society if they—" he paused, staring down his nose at her lasciviously, "— _prove_ themselves."

Lucius' voice was velvet, and Hermione's blood ran cold at the suggestion in his tone. "You could be  _powerful_  with us. No more death, no more blood. The choice is yours."


	5. Eight of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves! Sorry for the late post; I fell down the writing hole today, but the good news is that means more QoS content! Alpha love once again to LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13. If you haven't read LK's Sweetly Broken, go now! It's recently completed! Also, go check out MsMerlin's East of Eden. There are some amazing chapters coming! Beta love to tofadeawayagain. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I'm going to preface this chapter with a warning: there are some depictions of brief non-con later in this chapter--this is not between Draco and Hermione. Please read with caution if that can be traumatic for you.

 

**Chapter 5 – _Eight of Swords_**

She lost track of the days between his visits, but she'd begun to notice the ever-changing rotation of musicians that were forced to play in the house above. They each played a different style, some jazz, some classic waltzes, and others a classical ballad. All of them, however, shared the same characteristic hesitance of terror, and none of them lasted longer than a handful of days.

Certain slants of the moonlight on the hall floor when the entryway squeaked open denoted the ever-changing schedule of his visits, the distant sounds of wildlife waking after a long winter. Crickets chirped in the still night air, and she'd begun to smell the tell-tale signs of mold growing in the damp basement. She counted the days by the cycle of chirping: twenty-four hours had passed after each cycle of chirps, no chirps, and chirps again. The plan was only thwarted by the roiling blackouts after his visits, the time when she was lost to whatever had taken up residence within her.

When she was lucid enough to reach for it, she tried her magic, delving into the depths of her magical core and willing the tiniest spark to flame from her fingertips or lift the filthy ends of her hair, but it was futile. Whatever vestiges of it were left were buried beneath whatever they had done to her, hidden so deep within her that she couldn't access them.

She felt cold, empty. A walking corpse. It didn't help that the portions they fed her were just enough to keep her lucid but never enough to fill the gaping chasm that was her stomach. Often, her stomach would wake her in the night, the dissatisfied growl echoing off the bars of the cage in which she was trapped. She'd long stopped crying; it wasted too much energy, and her body already ached at each infinitesimal twitch of her ruined muscles.

Why they had allowed her to live so long was beyond her, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever find the answer. Infrequently, Voldemort would grace her cell with his presence, once again taunting her with his cruel, icy words and lingering stares.

She would never admit it, but she found herself grateful that Malfoy somehow managed to show up every time Voldemort drew close. The vile wizard would pin her down with his inhuman red eyes, his prey as Malfoy told him of yet another expectation that required his attention and called him away from her cell. Her gratitude ended at that, for every time Voldemort was called away, Draco was instructed to make her regret her defiance.

Malfoy was only too eager to oblige.

She'd begun to embrace it, sinking down into the darkness that the torture offered each time, relishing the fracturing of her mind if it just gave her peace.

Hermione didn't think of herself as weak, but there were moments when she just wished for it all to end. She called out in pain for people who had long forsaken her for death or betrayal, for Ron and for Harry, and it was in those moments that she felt a semblance of peace.

And so she drifted within the dark space her mind had crafted for her to fall into. They'd grown tired of trying to break her slowly, and Voldemort graced her cell night after night between periods of darkness to rip into her mind, torment her psyche, again and again. Tonight was no different. Her mind was pulled from it's morbid contemplation of her mortality and she managed to sit upright as he swept into her cage, his wand held aloft before him.

" _Incarcerous._ " Ropes shot from his wand tip, wrapping around her wrists and binding them painfully. With another flick of his wand, her hands were forced above her held and anchored to the metal bars. He cocked his head at her and stepped close to admire his handiwork, running his hand over the pallid skin exposed by her torn shirt.

"Hello, Mudblood," Voldemort purred, his hand sliding upward along the gaps between her ruined ribs.

Her mouth opened to retort, but he quickly waved his wand, silencing her with a filthy gag that knotted around her head. The hand that wasn't spanning her stomach knotted in her hair, wrenching her head backward. "Oh no, pet. I learned my lesson the last time; there's still a little Gryffindor fire in you, and you really ought not to anger me." He yanked his hand tighter and tears smarted at the corner of her vision. "How beautiful the Mudblood looks, trussed and terrified at what might befall her."

His hand cupped the curve of her breast, and her knees buckled as tears slid unbidden down her cheeks, her heart hammering a fierce rhythm in her chest as she heaved in deep breaths around the filthy fabric of the gag. Despite her fear, she stared into the monster's face, unwilling to show even a little bit of her exhaustion and the degradation that wore her to her very core. She forced every ounce of hatred she felt for him into her expression, and, to her dismay, heat flashed in his eyes.

When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she gagged. "I do so like it when they tremble, Mudblood." He tilted his head to look at her, his lips twisting into a cruel smile as his hand wandered upward.

Above them, the door clanged open and footsteps sounded down the staircase. Throwing her away from him, Voldemort cursed under his breath. She refused to look him in the eye as he stepped away from her; she knew it would be the same look promising that he wasn't through with her that she'd seen every time before.

Distantly, she recognized that she'd only heard the cellar door clang open; even now, she could see the moonlight streaming in from the open expanse at the top of the stairs. When the figures emerged from the shadows, however, the sorrow that she had buried deep within her reared back to the surface.

Ron.

She hadn't seen him since he had hauled her away from the town square she'd collapsed in. But here he stood, the same blank expression in his eyes that he'd bore when he'd captured her. She felt the same cold shiver crawl up her spine, the same inky blackness threatening to overtake her.

Malfoy cleared his throat, and she wrenched her gaze away from her former love. "My Lord, your presence is required in the drawing room. We've had another—" his gaze flicked to her for the briefest of moments, "—breakthrough in locating the remaining Order members. Her memories have proved useful."

Her heart sank as triumph lit Voldemort's features. Whatever they'd seen… it had to be important for Malfoy to call Voldemort away. The past few months, reliving their few months on the run, their capture, all of it had been replayed in her mind repeatedly until she vomited and prayed for it all to just end.

Malfoy stepped into the cell and smiled cruelly, a new, fuzzy detachment in his eyes. She didn't have time to question the change when he sniffed haughtily at her waste bucket in the corner and vanished it with a flick of his wrist. The feeling of his magic brushing against the skin of her arm sent shivers of longing through her, and she bit her lip to contain the misery at being in such close proximity to magic without being able to access her own.

He cleared his throat and spoke directly to her, something he did so infrequently that she was always jarred by the liquid smoke that was his voice. "I've brought a friend this time, Granger. Someone you might remember quite well, if his memory is any indication."

She'd known. She'd seen him come down the stairs, watched the way his detached gaze had followed Voldemort's actions with indifferent observation, but it didn't stop her heart from cracking in her chest or silence the broken sob that escaped when Ron Weasley stepped into the cell, a sickening smile stretched unnaturally across his face.

Her voice rasped from disuse, but she still tried to get through to him. "Ron, no. This isn't you. It's me.  _Hermione_! You don't want to do this." She scuttled further backward into the corner, trying desperately to distance herself from him, but he advanced until he was just in front of her and crouched down to peer at her.

There was no humanity in his eyes. They were hollow, the beautiful cerulean dull and distant. She could see no trace of her friend in the familiar face before her.

"Hello there, Hermione." His smile twisted into a sneer, and she tried to pull away. Even his voice was different, devoid of feeling. He was so fully entrenched in whatever Voldemort had done to him that the Ron Weasley she knew was gone. And she didn't even have time to mourn.

"We've gotten everything useful we can from her." Voldemort's voice grated against her skin, and Hermione turned her wide, terrified eyes on him. Whatever he was planning with this, she knew it was no spur of the moment decision. "Weasley, I'll allow you to do the honours." He turned away and crossed the length of the cell. "Break her."

Her swift intake of breath caused him to look over his shoulder, and Voldemort's reptilian eyes bore into hers. "Whatever it takes."

Her eyes snapped back to Ron, who huffed out a chuckle that punctuated the echoing of Voldemort's retreating footsteps. His laugh was a cruel reminder of the boy she'd once called her friend. He reached out a hand and smoothed it over her cheek, tucking a hair behind her ear in a facsimile of affection. She angrily fought the urge to lean into the familiarity of the gesture. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "Hear that, love? Whatever it takes." His hand slid down her neck and rested in the hollow at her clavicle before wrapping around her too-thin neck and tightening. "And I have all night to get there."

He loosened his grip on her neck with a too-familiar caress and stood, pacing the length of her cell, but she couldn't look at him. Every time she did, all she could see was the goofy-grinned, smudged-nose boy on the train first year, She saw his fumbling attempts at friendship with Harry – his hero worship of his best friend, his awe at helping Harry save her from the mountain troll. She saw the Ron she used to know, not the monster in front of her. She saw  _her_  Ron, and she wanted to weep.

All the while, he paced the cell and watched her. She wasn't sure what he was looking for, and she didn't want to know when he'd find it. When he cleared his throat to speak again, she closed her eyes at the obscene caress in his voice.

"Come on, 'Mione," he cajoled, using his special nickname for her, the one she hated but tolerated because he had given it to her. "Didn't you miss me? Didn't you wonder what happened to me while you ran your fool's errand?"

She shuddered and squeezed her eyes tighter at the barrage of images that played before her, provoked by his tirade.

Stomping footsteps alerted her to his presence before he yanked her upward and forced her eyes open. "You don't get to close your eyes or look away... You don't get to pretend that you don't remember, that you don't see." He chuckled darkly at the tears that ran unchecked down her face, certainty settling deep within her that Ron was beyond reach and dread spilling over what would surely come. "You  _will_ remember. Every bruise. Every snap of your bones. The way you  _beg_ me to just end it all. And then I'll show you the ways you broke me."

Hermione rebelled against his firm grip, but in her weakened state she couldn't compare to his brute strength. She was the tide crashing against a stone wall. He spun her around, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other across her throat.

Sobs tore from her throat, the guttural noises spilling from her mouth near inhuman. She finally managed to get out a muffled, "Ron, please.  _Pleasepleaseplease_  Ron, I'm your oldest friend. I know you're in there somewhere." He didn't move away, and when he shifted behind her, a blinding hope flooded through her. She tried one last time. "Ron, this isn't you."

To her horror, he rocked his hips into her arse, a prominent erection pressing into her. The same familiar gravelly voice from their couplings on the run ghosted over the shell of her ear. Her heart rent in two. "Oh, Hermione. You know I do love it when you beg.  _Legilimens._ "

Memories flashed before her at rapid speed. He was searching for something, for them together, and she fought harder than she had fought Malfoy to keep him out. He was sure of himself and remorseless. He rifled through her mind like a sock drawer, casting aside that which he didn't need, pausing on some, and finally seizing the one he had been looking for when her walls collapsed.

Ron's violation of her mind was different than Malfoy's. He knew her so intimately that he knew exactly what memories to choose to hurt her the most. His voice echoed in her mind as he picked apart moment after moment.

He'd chosen the memory of their first kiss in the little safehouse outside of Surrey that they had found when on the run. He forced her to watch it again and again, the stupid argument over who would be the first to keep watch, Harry's attempts to get them to calm down and talk to each other, and then finally coming together in the heated kiss that had started everything.

When he was satisfied that she'd seen enough, he rifled through her memories again and chose another one: the first time he'd told her he loved her. It had been in Grimmauld Place, their hideout from the fallout of the war and the one place they had left to land that hadn't been discovered by the Vehme. They had been dancing around it, and he'd finally let it slip one morning at breakfast, in the middle of another argument, over grounds in his coffee.

His laughter echoed in her ear. "If only I'd known then that you weren't good at anything until you were angry. I'd have saved a lot of time." The next memory was of their first time together, and Hermione let out a wounded sob as it began to play through her head, both of them fumbling together awkwardly, him cradling her face as he slid painfully into her, kissing away the tears that cascaded down her face, the broken Ron before her kissing away her tears in mockery of her memory.

"For someone who likes to research so much, I would have thought you'd have been better in bed." He ground his erection into her again, and she tried to close her mind to the memory. The arm across her neck slid lower and cupped her breast as his lips ghosted over her neck. "Oh, no, baby. You can't push me out. I want you to remember. Remember how good you felt, and never forget that it was never anything more for me than getting my dick wet." His hand squeezed her hip, and she closed her lips to keep her cry of despair from escaping. "You should see the things I've done—who I've been with, the way I like it."

He forced memories into her mind. Back to back to back, each with a different witch in a different position, all of them crying his name. He took most of them on their knees, driving into them from behind with his hands wrapped tightly around their neck and whispering the filthy things he wanted to do to them in their ears. He tied some of them up and repeatedly drove them close to the edge before he backed off and watched them cry at their overstimulation while he stroked himself, a cruel smile on his face.

Some of them cried out in ecstasy, enthusiastically bouncing on his cock as he yanked their hair while he drove into them. Some of them cried out in terror, their bodies frozen in whatever spell he'd forced them into for submission. Others still mechanically went through the motions, the distant haze in their eyes as they rode him indicative of the  _Imperio_  he'd placed upon them. All of them, however, cried his name out in bliss—exultantly y or reluctantly—when he drove them to orgasm. He spilled his seed into each one and then sent them away—to their death or back to the streets he had undoubtedly found them on.

He forced her to watch the duration of the time he'd bound a blonde girl and forced her to be shared among him and several other masked Death Eaters who smacked her face, called her names, used their wands to slice cuts down her back, and repeatedly shoved themselves down her throat until she nearly passed out from lack of air. It was only when he'd knelt down in her face to tell her what a  _good girl_  she'd been that Hermione had realized that the girl was Luna Lovegood.

The whole time he forced her to watch, he ran his teeth up and down the side of her neck, occasionally nipping at the skin long and hard enough to draw blood, which he hummed at in appreciation. As he watched himself defile Luna over and over again, his husky voice whispered through her mind. "If I'd known Loony was such a whore for cock, I'd have chosen her instead of you." They watched as he forced her backward over a table and draped her head over the other side, him driving into her while another masked Death Eater shoved himself in her mouth. Hermione could see the tears running down her face, but the girl did nothing to fight them off. It was clearly not the first time that it had happened.

"She was so good. Nice and sweet." He nipped at her earlobe. "And the way she  _moaned_ , Merlin. The first time, I nearly came right there. She was a virgin, you know." His other hand left its grip on her waist and plunged under the hem of her filthy t-shirt before it cupped over her breast and twisted a nipple. "She was so much more  _responsive_ than you are.

"When I did this—" the hand not currently tweaking her nipple slid under the hem of her ratty pants and cupped her sex "—she gasped in this husky little breath." The corresponding image flashed through Hermione's mind, and her heart clenched at the broken expression on Luna's face. The once whimsical girl stood naked before Ron, and she stared off into space with glassy eyes as he forced her legs apart and a finger inside her.

The hand on Hermione's sex, too, forced a finger into her, and she bit back another sob. She refused to give him the satisfaction of allowing him to see her fall apart in tears with the orgasm he was hellbent on forcing from her.

Ron chuckled. "Oh, she was so wet. And she  _hated_ herself for it. You see—" he worked the finger in and out of her slowly, ignoring how dry she was, "—I always slip into their minds and watch them, listen to them think. The ones that don't want to do it are usually the most feisty. Or they cry." He rolled his hips against her. "No, but Luna hated herself because she liked it. She  _liked_ how it felt when I shoved my fingers in her cunt. She  _loathed_ how much she loved it when I pushed her over the edge, and she wanted to die when she cried out my name when I slipped inside her, when she began to push herself back onto me, when she rode me again, and again, and  _again_  until she came with a cry of my name." His fingers punctuated each word in time with the memory. Ron continued to spit nasty words, to degrade her, but all she could hear were the words he'd spoken to her when they'd learned of Snape's activity in the Order: poisonous toadstools don't change their spots. Hermione's stomach roiled. Without warning, she vomited all over the floor. Grim satisfaction unfurled in her gut when it splashed against his legs.

With a grunt of disgust, Ron wrenched his fingers free and threw her down in the puddle of her vomit. A sob wrenched free, not at being tossed into her own sick, but because he suddenly, violently wrenched himself from her mind and the images he was forcing her to watch were finally gone.

"You never were one for the rougher side of things. Always prim and proper, little Hermione Granger. Harry's pet." Ron scoffed. "I should have known there was more between you." He strode over to the gate of her prison cell, clanging it shut behind him as he cast a  _Scourgify_ to rid the sick from the ends of his robe. Hermione watched him from the floor, feeling the grief and shame well in her gut. But below it all, a tiny ember at the bottom of a very deep pit, resided an ember of anger left to smoulder. And so she stoked it.

Ron continued to spit nasty words at her, degrading her, but all she could hear were the words he'd spoken to her when they'd learned of Snape's activity in the Order: poisonous toadstools don't change their spots. And yet here he stood, once such a kind man, one of her best friends, utterly changed to this husk of himself filled with bitter hatred to his very core.

"What happened to you?" The words were out of her mouth in a broken sigh of frustration, sadness, and anger, her inability to remain quiet drawn to its bitter end. His words and the deep black hatred in his eyes were so divorced from the individual she had loved so long ago. The last time she had seen him—

His brutish laughter pierced her introspection. "What happened to me? You know what happened to me, ' _Mione_." The nickname was a facsimile of affection, a blade to her chest, slipping between her lungs to slip into the quick. She refused to let the damage show. "Did you forget so easily?" A sneer, the tap of his wand dragging across the bars of her cage a steady, staccato beat as he paced in front of her. She didn't answer. "Do you remember, Hermione?"

She nodded noncommittally. She remembered. How could she forget? It was the reason Harry wasn't here, the reason Ron was no longer Ron, the reason everything she knew—or thought she had known—was now in a shamble around her. It was the reason she kept the blood on her hands, Harry's broken wand in her little beaded bag, the guilt like a weight upon her shoulders.

She was the reason they were so utterly ruined, and she could never forget.

Ron continued on, either unaware of the emotional turmoil that roiled beneath her skin or reveling in it. "See, Hermione, you're the reason that my whole family is fucked. You're the reason I had to watch Charlie and Bill die. And then I was offered a way out, a way to save the rest of them." His icy stare met hers, and she finally saw emotion in them, but the depth of it startled her into silence—hatred. Hatred gleamed back at her from the depths of the eyes that had once looked upon her with adoration. "Because of you, my entire life was ruined."

He lifted the wand, and for a brief moment, she thought that this would be it—this was her end after so long fighting—on the floor of a dingy cell in a nondescript house Merlin knew where. But fate was not that kind, nor was she so lucky. With a flick of the wrist, her cell door clanged open once more, and Ron slowly walked toward her, lifting the wand and uttering a curse: " _Crucio_."

Pain.

It was everywhere and nowhere at once, crawling along each vein and blood vessel, searing its memory through her limbs, and she swore she could feel it in the very tips of her hair. In the air around her. In the very cells of her being. She lost all sense of time, all sense of being. A prolonged state of agony. Her mind existed suspended, neither within nor without her. Everything that she knew was pain.

She couldn't say how long it lasted. Maybe a minute, five, thirty, but she was exhausted. She'd lost all faculties, and she'd long since stopped trying to fight the curse. She begged for death in her mind, and soon even that was an unintelligible string of words that repeated itself on a loop in her brain.

She felt a tooth crack from gritting her teeth together, and she was vaguely aware that she was thrashing in the pool of her sick from earlier, her hair falling into the open grimace she was sure would be etched permanently, painfully into her teeth.

Just as suddenly as it started, it was gone.

She laid there, unsure if even her heart was still beating. All she could hear was a dull roaring in her ears and a steady beat echoing off the dingy walls around her. When she finally opened her eyes, Ron stood sneering above her.

"Are you done?" He sniffed down at her, and she was struck by how similar his mannerisms were to Malfoy's. He leaned down until his face was inches from hers, and rancid breath ghosted over her cheekbones. "You're  _nothing_  to me. You're  _worthless_. As soon as we find the rest of them, you'll be passed around to the others to use you like the filthy Mudblood whore I should have known you were."

The rage she fostered flared brighter, and Hermione felt the inky blackness rear up. "When they break you down, I'll be there to watch," Ron breathed. "I'll be there to make sure you don't get up again. No more perfect Hermione Granger. No more Chosen One Harry Potter. You'll be dead, just like the rest of them."

Something within her snapped, and finally, after weeks of nothing, of reaching within herself to feel for some tendril of magic, she felt its spark. It was different, darker, inextricably linked to whatever hid away in the depths of her magical core, but she embraced it. It coiled around her fists, and she bit back a sigh at the kiss of magic on her weary body.

"And when they're done with you,  _mine_ will be the name they speak in the streets.  _I_ will be the one that they revere. I'm sick of living in your shadow," Ron spat in her face, a gob of it running down her cheeks, and the magic struck.

Dark tendrils ran down her forearms, sparking and leaping over one another, and the last thing she saw before the world went black was Ron's eyes widening with a barely-there glimpse of her former friend locked within.


	6. Reverse Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry this is a day late! I had wifi problems that weren't resolved until tonight. A quick note on this chapter: some of it was inspired by one of my fav series, so if you know, y'know (shout out to mcal for being a fellow fangirl over the series it nods to!). Once again, endless thanks to LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13 for their incredible alpha work and tofadeawayagain for her beta work!

**Chapter 6 - Reverse Hanged Man**

The guard changed. 

Funny, Hermione hadn’t noticed them–not until the morning after Ron’s visit, when she had woken with chunks of ginger hair in her hands and blood caked in her nail beds, the tangy iron stink of coagulated blood conjured her from the depths of the darkness she’d curled into and her eyes settled on the guard.

She couldn’t remember what had happened, her mind shrouded in a dark veil whenever she tried to think back to the night Ron had visited her prison, cringing at the dark hatred that reared up to meet her. With a trembling hand, she’d washed away the blood and the gore, and something like satisfaction unfurled in her when the clear water—the only luxury they’d afforded her—turned brown and washed away what little regret she harboured in her heart. 

She’d hidden the clump of hair in the darkest corner of her cell, a talisman of his brutality or her own, she wasn’t sure.

It was days before anyone neared her cage again. Longer still before she had food or a pitiful amount of cloudy water. Her lips cracked with each inhale and exhale as she held onto the tenuous grasp she had on her quickly failing hope. What had once been a burning flame within her slowly dimmed to ashes: filthy and futile. She focused on the embers beneath it all, praying it would be enough to survive whatever hell they drove her to.

She ought to have been glad, she supposed, when the door clanged open overhead on the third day. Several sets of lumbering footsteps descended the stairs, and she dragged herself upright to survey the men.

Blood-red cloaks swirled around the regiment of men standing before her, every one adorned with the intricate mask of the Vehme. With every last fibre of strength, she forced her spine straight, tilting her chin in defiance.

The door opened before slamming shut again above them, and she took advantage of the fleeting light to survey them. One tall and blond, one squat and muscled, another with skin so dark she thought he might melt into the shadows, and the last tall and lean. When her eyes lit on the man descending the stairs, her heart raced in her throat.

Not Ron, for which she was relieved—her stomach roiled at the prospect of seeing her former friend again—but Malfoy. He had donned charcoal slacks and a crisp white oxford, a far cry from his usual attire when he decided to facilitate her torment. With a sharp look, the men in the room stepped aside, allowing him to step up to her cage.

Hermione had never felt more like a caged bird—a pitiful, broken wisp of a thing—especially with Malfoy stalking the bars of her cell like a cat hunting his prey. A shudder wound its way through her core, her hands trembling. The cold look in his eyes was an uneasy caress over her tattered clothing, pausing at her hand curled into her chest to cover the breast that was exposed by Ron’s destructive hands. When he spoke, it was low and echoed off the stone, though she heard it clearly enough he might have been whispering in her ear.

“Do you know why you’re here, Granger?” His eyes flashed at her, and she felt the darkness within her answer the command in his tone, and without her bidding, her tongue loosened.

“So you can break them. The Order,” she ground out, and Hermione saw a flash of surprise within his eyes before it was gone. So fast she might have imagined it, but—

A cold smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and it lanced straight to her heart. “To break them, yes, but you also have work to do.” Malfoy stalked the length of her cell, his face in shadows. “We need answers, Mudblood. You’ve been lucky so far. The Dark Lord has been quite lenient with you, but that’s over. Since you are not willing to share them the easy way… well — ” His wrist flicked and her cell door creaked inward. “He’s ordered we do this the hard way.” 

The men around him filed inward, but she didn’t hear them. She was too lost in the way he studied her, the calculation in his eyes as his men filed a circle around her, blocking her way out. Static roared in her ears, and she was sure that the pounding of her heart could be heard upstairs, over the clumsy sound of yet another musician, and out into whatever gods forsaken street or countryside she had been spirited away to. 

She’d known it would come to this, and yet—

And yet she’d thought that somehow, by some miracle, someone would find her—would save her.

She tried to swallow around the foreboding that crawled its way up her throat, its sharp nails lodging in the torn skin, and a sob tried to force its way out of her. But she refused to give him even an inch. Blinking, she forced the tears back away. Hermione stared back steadily, the dull roar of her heartbeat the one lifeline she refused to give up.

With a steady gaze. “Do your worst, Malfoy. I have no secrets; everyone you seek is dead, and while you waste your time on me, the ones who aren’t will be far away plotting your death.”

Startling her, Draco threw his head back in laughter. The false mirth echoed around the room, grating on her ears, and when he met her gaze, his expression cooled. “Oh, Granger, don’t you know by now? I’ve just been sent to watch you scream; any knowledge is just a bonus. ” He waved a lazy hand at her waste bucket. Where before there had been nothing but a poorly crafted tin can, a metal table stood, shackles adorning the sides and end. 

Dread rose in her, stronger even than a magic that compelled her to answer his questions, and she backed away from him, bumping into the stone wall at the back of her cell. There was nowhere to run, nothing to do but thrash as she was dragged into the arms of the squat man. She couldn’t scream when they slid a dirty cloth between her teeth, gagging her, she could do nothing but allow her terror to leak from the corners of her eyes as the dark-skinned Vehme with the chocolate eyes flourished his wand and bound her feet. They worked together to bind her to the table, and she could do nothing but rage behind the wave of terror that threatened to consume her.

Malfoy stalked further into the cell once she’d been secured. He towered over her, his gaze flashing down her body to ensure that she was bound tightly, and only then did he lift a finger and run it over the cloth stuffed into her mouth, tinged with blood leaking from her cracked lips. “You know… you’re so much prettier when you’re quiet, Mudblood.” 

Her eyes flashed, and she would have spit at him if she could. Gods, what she would give to do to him what she’d done to Ron. Instead, she thrashed against her shackles and forced every ounce of hatred in her body into her stare, daring him to touch her again.

Whatever he chose to see in her expression, he ignored, and when he backed away, Hermione fought the sinking in her gut. For whatever reason, Malfoy always stopped things from going too far. Stopped her daily tormentors from delving into her mind too far, too deep. But when his gaze and the cell door shuttered between them, the tenuous trust she’d placed in him at some point throughout her captivity shattered.

“Do what you you will with her,” he murmured to the dark-skinned one before sparing her one last lingering glance, something like indecision shining within its depths. Before she could examine it further, he turned on his heel. The door slammed shut when he reached the top of the stairs. 

Hermione’s thrashing ceased as the Vehme loomed over her, four sets of cold, distant eyes stared down at her from behind ivory masks. Their eyes were beautiful in their clarity, the swirling colours of their irises blending seamlessly into their pupils, but the lack of humanity in the gazes would have brought her to her knees had she been standing.

Instead, the fight leached from her body, seeping through the cold metal of the table that kissed her shoulder blades unforgivingly. The only part of her body she had volition to move was her head. She watched the lanky one cross the room wave his wand, transfiguring one of the rocks just out of her reach of her cell—the one she’d tried to reach to no avail, until a tattoo of bruises decorated her arm—into a smaller table. Sturdier, cleaner than the pitted and scratched one she lay upon.

With a flourish of his wand, a leather bag appeared on the table before him, and what she spied within it sent her stomach roiling, threatening to heave up the bile that was left in its pit.

Knives. Knives of all lengths and shapes decorated the interior. Curved blades with pointed shape enough to gut her from neck to navel seamlessly, shorter skewers that could pin her body to the table without remorse. Long, serrated blades for sawing. She looked away when he ran his hands sensuously over the blades, savoring the feel of the cold metal on his skin. She could have sworn that she saw a shudder of anticipation roil through the lines of his shadow as he selected his weapon.

The snap of his fingers  alerted her to the fact that he had chosen his tool and cancelled the sticking charms. The first blade of many that she was sure would pierce her skin until she could no longer stand the pain, the agony. He’d chip at her until she broke and her mind fractured into a million tiny pieces for them to pick through. 

Clopping footsteps brought the ungainly man closer, his gait all too familiar, and she swallowed down the contents of her stomach as she surveyed the instrument in his hands. It was large, its pointed end winking at her in the muted lamplight, a facsimile of the joy the sunlight had brought when it bounced off the bars of her bike as a child. 

Forceps. 

The skinny one brandished his wand once more, a murmured  _ Incendio  _ sending a flame bouncing in the air in front of her as the other one lowered the winking end of the implement into them. When he pulled it away moments later, the once-gleaming tip glowed red-hot.

One of them leaned over her, and she suddenly recognized the individual in the flash of light in his eyes, the aristocratic voice that whispered in her ear. “Let’s hear how the Mudblood sings.” 

Zabini.

One by one, the others removed their masks, staring down at her.

Zabini. Goyle. Crabb. Flint.

A lone tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she clenched them shut praying to whatever Muggle god was listening to just make it quick.

They started with her toes.

They slid the instrument beneath the nail of her pinky toe and pulled it, slowly, excruciatingly, away from its bed. The miniscule nail pulled away from her body, and the pain was white-hot, a veritable flame that spread through her limbs like fiendfyre. All the nerves in her body were connected to that one point in her toe, and pressure wound within her as she clamped down on the makeshift cloth bit.

The pressure broke.

An inhuman scream ripped from her lips.

When they were satisfied that the nail was well and truly departed from her person, they held it over her eyes, taunting her with it. Through her tears, she could see the blood coating its edge, a sharp contrast against the lavender polish she’d indulged in when she’d found it in one of the abandoned houses on the run.

Hermione bit her tongue to keep from screaming, blood filling her mouth, but still her whimper echoed around the cell. Their mirrored garish smiles filled her vision before they moved away once more, the craggy ceiling of her cell the only company to her streaming eyes.

And so they continued, ripping nail after nail from her, holding each up to her eyes as she felt the blood run down her foot, the sticky mess of it pooling beneath her ankle until finally, blissfully, she howled one more broken scream and drifted into darkness.

Blinking awake, she peered into the consuming void of her darkened cell. The tiny lamp that had been her sole companion for days had either finally given out or been taken from her. Worse, with it gone she couldn’t even hear the chirps of the birds beyond this damned hellhole any longer.

Cautiously, she tested her limbs. They were tight, mostly from lack of use and likely the strain she’d forced into them to try to break the hold of the shackles on her wrists. At their protest, she gasped and collapsed back into the ball she’d awoken curled in. 

Everything was pain. She didn’t know where it ended and her body began, so closely entwined it was with every fibre of her being. Even her lungs screamed for release, for a break from the endless gusts she sucked inward to try to calm the shudders that ran through her whole body. Still, the agony radiated through her. 

How long had they been at it? Had they stopped when she’d finally passed out? She wouldn’t truly know. She shuddered to think about what they had done to her after she’d slipped away into the comforting numbness of her mind. Had they continued pulling out her nails one by one? Worse? 

Swallowing a gasp of fear, she curled her knees higher, bracing her back against the bars that she’d come to rest against. With a breath to steel herself, she felt blindly downward, feeling for her feet to assess further damage.

What met her hand knocked the wind from her lungs. They were… fine. She was missing her shoes, yes, but the nail on each toe was still in tact, and she could feel the slight raise where the nail polish she’d applied weeks ago had grown out, the space between the end of her nail and where her toe began, an indication that she desperately needed to trim them.

But how—

The door clanked open above her, and a light appeared at the head of the stairs. Fighting every muscle screaming in protest, she scrambled as far into the corner as she could. 

The light was dim, orange, bobbing down the stairs. Whoever was carrying it was significantly shorter than Malfoy, shorter even than the squat man who had taken particular joy in the way her screams wrenched out, tempered with sobs. 

Bouncing along behind the dim orange light, she first saw a pair of pointed ears, their length just visible beyond the shadows. 

_ Dobby? _

Hermione’s heart lept in her chest, but it crashed down around her ankles, a fresh wave of despair crashing through her when she remembered that of course it couldn’t be Dobby; Bellatrix had taken care of that.

She scuttled further back into the shadows as the light loomed closer. She’d spent so long wallowing in the darkness in her cage that the little light burned her eyes. When she could move no further backward, the light paused at the edge of the bars and lowered to the little elf’s side.

_ Winky. _

Hermione had thought the elf was dead, and she thought that death might be the better alternative for how the poor wretch looked now.  Burn marks littered her arms, round wounds that appeared to be from cigarettes scattered in an arc across her cheek. One of her eyes was swollen shut, an angry purple shiner spanning the lid and down onto the fragile cheekbone illuminated by the lamplight. Her other eye welled with unshed tears, and the little elf looked anywhere but at the broken witch before her. 

With a trembling hand, Winky extended a small tray forward, sliding it under the minute gap between the floor and the door’s bottom. Hermione fought the pain and rocked up onto her knees.

“Winky, are you--”

The witch couldn’t finish her sentence as Winky burst into tears. “WINKY, NO. WINKY CANNOT SPEAK TO THE WITCH. MASTER BURNS HER HANDS, SHE DOES.” 

The little creature’s shouts echoed through the cellar, bouncing off the bars, and lodged into the depths of her ears. Hermione shrank back, her hands curling over her ears in a protective crouch. 

Winky turned tail and fled back up the stairs. When the door slammed shut behind her, Hermione heard the heavy deadbolt lock into place again. 

That elf was gone, replaced by a wisp of the already-nervous creature, and Hermione’s heart mourned her loss. If she ever got out of here—

Too soon, however, the waft of the food reached her, and even her sorrow over the elf’s treatment was overridden by the smell of the food, and Hermione crawled on exhausted limbs to the bowl. 

Broth, just enough to cover the bottom of the chipped porcelain bowl, wafted the tantalizing smell of warm meat. Tiny flecks of what she hoped was chicken sat at the bottom. A sad meal for a prisoner, but it was food all the same.

Within seconds, she’d scooped the bowl from the tray and cradled it greedily to her mouth, slurping as much of it down as she could. A splash of it missed and slid down her cheek, and she cried in dismay, catching it on her fingertip and licking it clean.

A far cry from the dentist’s daughter, raised to be so meticulous with her manners that she could have held her own amongst even Malfoy’s expectations. But now, starving and stripped bare of her dignity, she didn’t care whether she was graceful in her consumption of the broth. 

The pitiful broth stole her attention, so much so that she didn't register the snap of the lock above her.

The clearing of a throat interrupted the euphoria of her meal, and she froze, the last of the broth trickling down her chin and to the floor beneath her. Dread spiked through her as her eyes traced the figure upward, following the lines of a cloak up the trim body until they came to rest on the tuft of blond hair peeking out from behind the mask. 

Malfoy.

Behind him, the same men as the last time, the slim one again carrying his roll of tools. Her breath gusted out of her, and the bowl in her hand crashed to the floor, shattering on impact. The only sound in the cellar.

The squat one stared down at her, a sadistic twist to his lips. “Hullo, love.” His voice was deep, a saccharine drip, and she reared backward and tried to crawl away. The door clanged open and Malfoy strode in, waving his wand at her. 

Hermione froze, and her mind began the frantic race to try to escape. There was nowhere to go, nothing she could do, and—

Suddenly, she was on the table, Malfoy refusing to look at her and murmuring a command to Zabini, and he strode from the room, the clang of her cage the harbinger of her pain.

Zabini leaned over her, his shadow pinning her to the floor, and his hot gaze raked over her. “Well, Granger, where should we begin today?’

The food in her stomach rioted as they once more conjured the table, the chains that bound her to its top. When the lean one towered over her, she used what little fortitude the food had offered her to sink into herself, to find the one solace that she’d been able to think of in the depths of darkness she’d found the last time.

She had practiced this. At some point, she thought she must have known it would come down to this. She remembered Harry’s words from fifth year:  _ it’s like building a brick wall. You start one by one, and you cement it is as you go. _

Rancid breath skated over her cheek.

_ Brick _ .

Claws skimmed her breasts, and a dark chuckle echoed around the room.

_ Brick _ .

Knees kicked wide as she wilted into the table.

_ Brick. Brick. Brick _ . A brick wall high enough that not even the most talented broom flyer could clear it. Seal the ceiling with a thick layer.

A brick wall thick enough no one could hear her screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: one quick note: next week's chapter may be a bit late because I'm waiting to get it back from my beta.


	7. Five of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end of the chapter for notes. Beta creds to tofadeawayagain for her tireless work. All remaining errors are my own.

**Chapter 7 -** _**Five of Swords** _

Hermione startled out of the darkness to water dripping on her face.

Try as she might, she couldn’t sit upright.  Her eyes peeled open, the gritty sand of their dryness burning the backs of her lids as she peered sightlessly into the space around her.

Her senses reached out around her, groping for that last shred of magic she felt, the one she called up around her as a shroud against Voldemort’s men. Far away, down a tunnel and behind a wall, she felt it tremour in response. All too soon, it went quiet, the deathly still of her magic another blow to her already beaten confidence.

She could feel something around her, something live and warm and _familiar_ , but she couldn’t place its warmth. It whispered against the edge of her frayed nerves, a comforting touch in the hell her life had become. Leaning close to her ear, it whispered in her ear, its voice a breath on the damp wind of the cellar.

_Soon._

But too quickly it was gone, and she descended back into the depths of darkness before her mind could answer its call.

* * *

 

When Hermione awoke again, she was still bound to the table, but the room was brightly lit. She hissed at the harsh glow and recoiled from the cold metal  biting into the ruined bones of her shoulder.

Hermione didn’t feel the pain that she knew she should at the gore that dangled from the broken socket – was  numb to the horror that should have lanced through her at the sight that met her gaze when she lifted her head.

How long she’d been drifting in the dark place, she didn’t know, but they’d mutilated her body. Large swathes of her skin were peppered with bruises and deep gashes, several of them so deep she could see the ivory tease of her bones peeking through the shredded flesh. Other places — her ankles, wrists — were so contorted that she thought there was no possible way they would ever be the same again.

Bile rose in her throat when Zabini looked up from his ministrations on her knee, a strangely beautiful white marble tool held in one hand, poised to strike again and marr its surface further with a splash of her dark blood. He smiled up at her, and she didn’t feel the desire to wrench away that she knew she ought to. Flecks of her blood were splashed across his face, a smattering of crimson freckles across the aristocratic arch of his nose.

“So you’ve joined the land of the living!” His voice was jovial, and he hummed as he set down the chisel. He ran his fingers over the mangled flesh he’d been chipping away at, and finally — _finally_ — she felt a tremour of something pass through her, but she was powerless to say what it might be.

“Goyle!” he called, a sing-song lilt to his voice that was antithetical to the scene before him. “She’s opened her pretty little eyes.”

Goyle appeared above her, bloodlust clearly written across his features. He ran his fingers through her hair, snagging the bloodied clumps he encountered as he pet her. “So pretty…” he mused. His fingertip dipped into one of the open cuts along her hairline, and he traced his fingers down her cheeks and over her lips, leaving a trail of her blood in their wake. "Shhh, it'll be okay."

Goyle reached behind him for the implement Blaise extended to him. Her eyes widened when he turned back around with another, smaller pair of forceps than the last time in his hands. When he pulled the gag from her mouth, her screams were quickly silenced by the foul-tasting metal clamping onto her tongue.

She sank into darkness once more.

* * *

 

When Hermione woke again, she was curled on her side in the corner. The metal waste bucket was where it had always been. The rock she strove to reach but never quite could still lay in its desolate shadow just beyond her reach.

Blinking her eyes open, she frantically tried to remember what had happened.

She remembered Malfoy and the others, descending the stairs, tying her to a table, _breaking_ her.

Hermione took inventory of her body. Her skin was mostly unmarred, even though she vividly remembered the way it sliced open under their previous care. Timidly, she checked her shoulder; rolling it in its socket and finding that there were no rips in the sinew or bones. Her knee was still its normal shade of pale ivory; blood didn’t pool beneath her, didn’t congeal in the torn clothing draping her body.

Her mind raced. Surely she hadn’t…

But Harry’s voice floated through her mind, his words about Voldemort’s memories planted in his head: _They just felt so_ real, _Hermione. It was like I was there, like it all happened._

Maybe they’d done the same to her. It would serve them well. They hadn’t been able to break her with starvation. Not even sending her friend to assault her. The torture coupled with Malfoy’s assault on her memories and the growing horror that even her mind couldn’t distinguish what was real anymore, and she sank into deeper into despair.

Her mind had been compromised; she was broken.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Perhaps it had happened. Perhaps they simply chose to make her imagine that she was whole, that she was lying in this darkness whilst they ripped her to sinew and shreds. Maybe even now she floated in the darkness, inches from death.

If they couldn’t break her, maybe they’d chosen to destroy her bit by bit until there wasn’t even a recognizable corpse for the Order to find.

Hollow wails crashed against the stone of her cell as she sobbed. Great, heaping gasps of air left her lungs and tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. A stitch in her side shortened the breath that she was able to get in her screaming lungs, and she quickly descended into hyperventilation.

Through it all, the one thing that she’d come to rely on had been her mind. It had been her tether to reality, her anchor to the truth that had become _so tenuous_ in this new world.

And now, she couldn’t even trust that.

The door above her clanked open again, and she didn’t even bother to right herself in the dust. Let them find her here, nearly shattered beyond recognition. It was what they wanted. And if it was all a farce, then at least she wouldn’t have to face death when it came. She could simply drift away into the darkness that beckoned her soul

And suddenly Malfoy was before her, kicking the rock that she so desperately wanted to fling at his head, to rake over his face, to carve down to _his_ bloody bones, but her frail limbs simply folded under her, unable to hold up the weight of her starving body.

If she wasn’t mistaken — and she was, _terribly_ so — she thought the look he pointed at her might have been pity. But it was Malfoy, and he was ordering these things be done to her. Her mind had already played tricks on her, so she forced a laugh from her throat, calling it forth from deep in the marrow of her bones – a laugh so cynical she didn’t recognize it as her own until his brow furrowed.

“Get up.” His hands wound behind his back, and he stared down at her. When she didn’t move, he snarled at her again. “I said _get up_ , Mudblood.” Spittle rained down on her from his harsh enunciation.

Still she lay curled in a heap on the floor.

 _Let him kill me_ , she thought. _Let it all be done._

She was just so _tired_.

He whipped his wand out and pointed in her face through the bars, the tip inches from her nose, so close she thought she could feel the swirl of magic repel away from her drained, worthless body. Hermione closed her eyes and waited for the flash of green light that would spirit her away into whatever lay beyond this life.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and when nothing happened, she peeled open her worn eyes and stared into the soul of the man who had broken her.

A flood of memories ripped from her mind.

_She and Harry, dancing around the Yule Ball. Pumpkin Pasties shared over a warm common room fire. Ron’s belly laugh when he found something truly funny. The way Crookshanks curled into her side on cold winter nights, helping drive away the chill of the tower. Molly Weasley’s cooking at Christmas. Laughter echoing down the corridors of the Hogwarts Express. Banishing a boggart for the first time._

Vivid memories flashed behind her clenched lids, and her soul seized painfully in her chest.

Gone. _All of it._

In the blink of an eye, it had been ripped from her as if had simply never existed; she would never see this life again.

Someone was sobbing in the room, pleading for it to end, and still Malfoy assaulted her with memory after memory.

 _Neville covered in soot and asking her if she needed assistance with the Venomous Tentacula. Frantically scouring the old tomes in the library for the_ exact _right book. Luna telling her about yet another make-believe creature she’d found around Hogwarts. Stumbling over Ginny and Harry kissing in a broom cupboard after curfew, both of them begging her not to tell Ron. Viktor asking her to be his penpal._

All her cherished memories of Hogwarts flashed between her eyes, and her stomach was in her throat, voice burned raw from the unintelligible begging. And still Malfoy stared down at her, his grey eyes grim with _something_ just beyond her comprehension, and she fell.

Hermione crashed into the dirt and rubble of the cell and lay there, limbs sprawled around her. Snot mingled with the dirt, and she knew as well as she knew her name that she’d soiled herself. The stink of piss lingered in the air, and she could feel the warm trickle of it as it ran down her legs and pooled in the dirt beneath her.

Still she didn’t move. Her mind fractured, and suddenly she was everywhere and nowhere at once.

Vaguely, she was aware of Malfoy snarling something behind him. It was a word, an insult, most likely, but she was far too lost to the past to care.

Hermione chased down the darkness that had become her companion. She hoped she never cared again.

* * *

 

She was strapped to the table again.

 _It was inevitable_ , she thought as she glared at the man hovering over her. Flint, the one that always hung back, his dark hair a tousled mess over his head. His hands were graceful even as he shredded into her abdomen.

Hermione felt the pain that time. Every last bit of it lanced through her mind as she followed his movements. Periodically, he stopped for the briefest of moments, surveying his handiwork and planning his next approach. Then he’d tear into her again, the short knife he used sharp and effective in its path of destruction.

Someone behind her stroked her head and cooed at her, but she stared with growing dread at the figure at her stomach. The scarred hands, the familiar lilt to his head as he studied her.

Those hands had never moved so gracefully before.

The man looked up and dust filled her mouth when she tried to scream. He wore Harry’s face and smiled, the obscene grin stretching his lips wide until its jaw burst and darkness streamed out, swallowing her whole.

* * *

 

She floated in the depths of something dark, black, and angry, a welcome reprieve to the pain. Here, she felt nothing, was nothing, would never be anything again.

Here, she was free.

Something within her, that black thing that lingered in the very depths of her soul, that had swallowed her magic whole and held it captive, beckoned her forward. Slowly, reluctantly, she swam toward the surface.

* * *

 

Malfoy stood before her again, an angry crease between his brows. Cotton filled her ears and her tongue was cracked and dry in her mouth. When she opened her mouth to speak, it lolled out of her, a useless lump of muscle broken as she was.

His disgust was palpable, and he strode on his heel from the room.

When Winky appeared moments later, Hermione didn’t lift her head from the dirt that she lay in. The little elf approached slowly, a tray before her, and laid it beside Hermione.

Gently, so carefully that Hermione thought she might have imagined it, the little elf lifted her limp head from the ground and laid it carefully in her lap. With tentative fingers, Winky fed ice chip after ice chip to her until she could pull her tongue back into her mouth and close her cracked lips.

Hermione’s head rolled back as she moved to thank the creature, but Winky sprinted up the steps and out of the dungeon before she could say a word. The clanging of the door punctuated her departure.

* * *

 

It became routine. Malfoy roused her from the dark, and she was either forced through memories or torn apart by his lackeys. She didn’t know what was real. She wasn’t sure she even cared to know. She simply existed.

The past splintered. Memories overlapped and bled into each other. They warped. The noises within them became a garbled mess of nonsense, and still she plunged. Deeper and deeper into the blackness she sank, and still she did not claw her way out.

It was a blanket she wrapped herself in, the only solace she’d managed to find in the filthy cage that had become her home. Where Malfoy’s voice beckoned her upward, it pulled her further down, soothing the ache in her soul.

Zabini became her constant companion. Even when he wasn’t physically there, she felt his foul breath caressing her cheek, his fingers exploring the soft underside of her arms, the dips in her ribs, the fleshy parts of her breasts, strumming along her body and evaluating the best place to strike.

And when she woke with them all surrounding her, the crimson of her blood staining their hands and clothes, she stared blankly up at the ceiling, begging for someone, _anyone_ to just make it stop.

Suddenly, it did.

She awoke on the cellar floor, the cold of the stones sinking deep into her bones. Her clothes had been changed at some point. She flexed her hands, her feet, feeling for something to tell her what had been real and what hadn’t.

A violin played somewhere overhead, and she urged her racing heart to slow and follow the melody. It was something Muggle — she didn’t know the name, but she knew the haunting rise and fall of the notes that sang forth from the bow. Their hands were steady; maybe Voldemort had allowed someone to play that wasn’t to be put to death afterward. Maybe it had been a dream.

Despite herself, she pushed her weary body upright and froze. The floor overhead creaked, and she strained to place the difference.

The door whined again, and voices drifted down the stairwell.

Her breath stopped in her chest. Just barely, so minute that she might not have noticed it had she not been paying attention, the door to the cellar was cracked. Whoever had dared visit her hovel last hadn’t made sure the door caught and the lock latched, and the gust of someone walking by had blown in open just enough to catch her attention.

From the crack, the music issued clearly. It was a waltz, though a slow and melancholy version of one she’d heard in an old show her father liked. And above her, footsteps creaked in time with the music.

A party. Voldemort was having a party.

On groaning legs, she pushed herself upright, leaning against the bars closest to the door. Bright laughter peeled down the steps, and voices followed it. Her blood stilled in her veins when she realized the laughter was familiar.

Bellatrix LeStrange.

Somewhere in the house above her, one of the most dangerous magical beings she knew waltzed.

Dread coiled in her stomach. What would she do if the woman saw the door, descended the stairs, and found Hermione trapped within the damned metal bars that had become her home? Panic clawed up her throat, and a thin whine escaped her.

After all of this — somehow surviving what Malfoy’s men had put her through — and she might die at the hands of that crazy bitch.

Reaching down within her, Hermione willed any of her magic to come forth. She pleaded, screamed into the depths of herself, for just the slightest spark to flare at her fingertips, a slight lift of the ends of her hair, anything to show her that she was not so horribly broken that she couldn’t conjure up the tiniest bit of magic.

A crack rent through her soul when not so much as a flicker appeared within her.

Just as she was about to give in, to curl into the dirt and wait for whoever happened upon her to end her, Hermione heard a rock shift in the darkness beyond her cage.

Her breath stilled in her chest, and she forced her muscles to remain still lest she give away her location in the pitch black of the night.

When a quiet snap echoed throughout the room and a diminutive flame flickered to life, she nearly sobbed in relief.

Winky stood in the corner, trembling from head to toe in a filthy tea cloth. She smiled tremulously at the witch. “Winky helps.”

Hermione could have cried. She sank to her knees as the little elf approached, careful to step over rocks that stood in her path. When she reached the barred door of the cage, she snapped again and the door, for once, swung soundlessly inward.

The elf blinked again at Hermione, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek. “Winky helps.”

Hermione smiled up at the elf through tears of her own. “Winky is such a good elf.” The little creature turned several shades of red and Hermione quickly covered the compliment with an order, praying to the gods that the elf didn’t begin punishing herself for her slip. “Winky, you need to get me out of here. Can you Apparate?”

Winky shook her head sadly. “Nos, I can’ts. Master Malfoy forbades me, Ms. Hermione.” Her large, baleful eyes peered down on Hermione. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “Winky is bad elf. Winky helps Ms. Hermione escapes. But Ms. Hermione is nice to Winky.”

Biting back a sob, she took the little elf’s hand in her own. “Can you get me past the stairs?”

Screwing up her shoulders, Winky put on a brave face. “Winky tries—” Hermione’s foolish heart soared.

And crashed as the words tumbled out of Winky’s mouth. “—but Masters Malfoy has friends here, and Vold—”

Too late to stop her, the name tumbled out of the little elf’s mouth and pops of Apparition sounded around the cellar. As suddenly as she had appeared to Hermione, the little elf was snatched into the air, Ron holding her aloft.

He sneered down at Hermione. “Thought you’d escape, did you?” With a careless toss, Winky flew across the room and hit the bars with a crack. She slid to the floor and didn’t move again. “Funny how you always claimed you’d save them but you end up causing them more harm than good.”

A whimper left Hermione’s throat, but Ron’s hand curled around her neck, cutting off her air supply and sending black dots dancing across her vision. “And here we thought we’d broken you.” He shook her, tossing a shouted “Zabini!” over his shoulder.

The man appeared, his brows drawn low over his eyes. For once, none of them were clothed in the crimson garb of the Vehme. Their suits shone on them, golden threads of magically-enchanted silk interwoven within the fine black of their tailored suits. Despite their finery, each of them still bore the mark of Voldemort’s chosen ones. Deep red roses, so dark they nearly black, were pinned to their lapel.

“Clearly your work hasn’t been effective enough.” Ron’s grip on her neck tightened, and his words washed over her face before he threw her on the floor.

Ron glared down at her before he whirled on his heel and strode for the stairs. Before he ascended them, he turned and pinned her to the floor with his eyes. Hatred flared in his eyes. “Kill the elf in front of her. And make her watch.”

A hiccuping sob met his declaration from the little elf on the ground behind her.

The lock clicked at the top of the stairs, stealing away her escape yet again as Winky’s agonised screams echoed around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Another rough chapter for Hermione, but I promise there is a point to this. I know it's hard to read-it was difficult to write. Yes, this fic is dark, but there is a point to this; I'm not just writing torture scenes willy nilly. There is a purpose behind each scene I write, and I wouldn't include it if it wasn't relevant (shout out to my two incredible alphas and dear friends LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13 for helping talk me off a ledge with wondering if these scenes were too much in initial drafts). To the reader who accused me of writing torture porn, I'm sorry you feel this way, but I recognize that you're entitled to your opinion; please in the future be sure to mind those tags and the weight of your accusations, as they sowed self doubt quite deep in this fic. To the readers who are continually sweet every week and are enjoying this fic, I appreciate your love so much. I hope you all enjoyed this, and I promise that answers are coming.


	8. The Moon

**Chapter 8 - _The Moon_**  


Winky’s body still laid on the filthy floor, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, when Malfoy strode down the stairs. 

His disapproving glare lit on Zabini, motioning the dark-skinned man to him and lingering on the specks of blood that Goyle vanished from his clothing. 

When the two separated, Malfoy spoke to the room at large, his lackeys still hidden in the shadows as they watched. “That will be enough for one night.”

The words fell on deaf ears. Hermione fought to hold her sobs in check as she stared into Winky’s broken face. It was all too much, and the despair sat heavy on her chest like a lead weight. Whatever may come, she had to get out of this Merlin-be-damned cellar.

Quieting her sobs, Hermione summoned whatever strength lingered in her broken body. She righted herself on scabby knees and as she did, Malfoy lifted a finger, silencing the Vehme. Clearing her broken throat, she spoke with a rasp. “Take me to him.”

Malfoy whirled around to glare at her, though she did not balk. Instead, she spoke again, the conviction in her tone belying the nausea that buoyed her stomach. “I wish to speak to Voldemort.” 

Zabini crashed through the cage, his anger a palpable force as magic charged the air and he towered over her. “You will not speak his name, filthy Mudblood.”

Zabini and Goyle each grabbed her under an arm, wrenching her upward. Pain shot down her limbs, the burning of eroded muscle, but she didn’t flinch. Goyle shoved her forward and she stumbled, but she made no move to catch herself.

Let her fall, let her fracture every bone in her body. Let them break her beyond recognition. She no longer cared.

When Malfoy’s eyes bore into her own, she summoned every last bit of strength she still felt in her bones and spat in his face, the same grim satisfaction in her gut that she’d felt as when she’d spat on Voldemort.

It connected to his forehead, and she followed it with as much venom as she could muster. “I hope you bloody rot, Malfoy.” 

Despite the disgust pulling at the corner of his mouth, his hand reached up to caress her filthy cheek. “Such brave words, considering you’ve a date with death.” His hand grasped her shoulder in a rough clasp. “You would do well to remember who has chosen to keep you alive thus far, Granger. Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

Her face was wrenched up until she was staring into the bottomless depths of his grey eyes. Harsh breath puffed against her cheek, and she wrenched her gaze away to stare at the rapidly beating artery in his neck and the tick in his jaw as he worked it. He released her hair, and she crashed to the ground. “Nott!” 

The two men conferred in near silence, the whispers passed between them inaudible save for the soft hiss of their breath. The one he’d called Nott—Theo, she remembered from Hogwarts—snorted harshly but nodded, exiting the cellar up the staircase. When Malfoy faced her again, his gaze took quick inventory of her appearance.

Malfoy sniffed at her and motioned the other men in the room to surround her. When he stalked forward, she fought the furious sneer that crawled up her face. Even so close to giving up, she refused to give him any more satisfaction.

“If you’re to join this party, Granger,” Malfoy drawled, “then you’re going to need to clean up. I can’t have you soiling my mother’s party with bloodied hair and rags barely covering that filthy body of yours.” His wand poked into her hair, using it to lift the strands that were soaked with weeks of filth and blood and sweat. “No, won’t do a bit.”

Zabini sidled up behind her and placed his too-large hand on the curve of her hip. She could have thrown his hand off her, aimed a well-deserved kick to his groin, but she didn't want to waste the precious energy she'd been trying to muster. Instead, she glowered up at Malfoy, anger and exhaustion warring in the depths of her brown eyes. “What should we do with her, Draco?”

She started slightly.  _ Draco _ . She’d forgotten that he had a first name, that someone somewhere probably called him by it and used it affectionately. She couldn’t fathom how someone could see the sneer on his face, the way it cut across his angled cheekbones and turned his smooth, pale skin to harsh marble lines, and call him something so simple. How much disdain could one force into his name?

Gatheringthe last of her tired wit, she snarled half-heartedly at the man. “Yes, what will you do with me,  _ Draco _ ? Cut me up some more? Meddle in my mind? Or maybe—” with a wave of Draco’s hand, her voice stopped in her throat, and she slumped into the arms of the man who stood at her back, defeated. 

Zabini’s deep voice rumbled through her body. “Perhaps Nott should bathe her? Get her cleaned up so that she’s—” he made a show of sniffing the air around her, disguised a disgusted scoff on a chuckle, and continued. “—presentable for our Lord.”

Malfoy gazed down at her. She could feel the gaze roving over her body, caressing the places where she ought to have been marred with scars. The skin was impossibly smooth, a fresh swath to replace the broken and ruined flesh they had destroyed over the weeks. She’d stopped wondering what had happened and what hadn’t. It was better to just allow her mind to supply its own explanation.

Nott stode closer to her, alarmingly quiet and graceful despite the destruction she assumed his hands could wreak. When his arm wrapped around her too-skinny forearm, the little hope inside that she would be able to orchestrate an escape withered away. 

Draco’s gaze stopped on the curve of her neck, glued to the bruise that was likely blooming there from Goyle’s tight hold on her neck while they forced her to watch them hurt Winky. “Take her to the west wing. Servant’s quarters. I’ll send Elly to meet you there.”

Nott forced her forward a few steps, but Malfoy cut into their path before they could ascend the stairs. “You’re not to touch her. I don’t want her harmed.” His voice was low, barely audible over the pounding of her heart, and he gazed sharply over her shoulder.“I mean it, Nott. She’s a prisoner, but she’s to be untouched before the Dark Lord. Do I make myself clear?” Steel lined his words, and a foreboding shiver worked its way down her back.

Nott’s voice was steady when he spoke. “Crystal, sir.” With a sharp jerk of her arm, he dragged her toward the stairs.

Hermione had to force her legs to cooperate up each step, but soon her knees gave out, crashing to the cold stone, and Nott hauled her to lean against him. When the lock in the door clicked open, Hermione’s heart cried out. So close to freedom, and yet she was still shackled.

They entered a servant’s kitchen after clearing the doorway, but Hermione quickly slammed her eyes shut at the light pouring through the low-set window in the wall. Despite its use for servants, what she saw of it made her heart ache. 

It reminded her of the Burrow. 

Dishes washed themselves in the sink and neatly soared through the air to stack in the cabinets around the room. Beautiful cut crystal wine glasses hung from a rack beneath the cabinets, and hundreds of pots and pans gleamed from their suspension above the stoves.  _ Stoves _ . What kind of family needed two stoves?

The scurrying pitter patter of tiny feet drew her attention, and two house-elves stared back at her, their little pillowcase outfits filthy with flour and other dried food. They peered back at the man dragging her pitiful form, faces marred with twin looks of terror, and they quickly returned to their tasks after Nott stared them down. 

From behind squinted lids, Hermione observed the rest of the house he dragged her through. It was a study in contrast to the filthy cellar she had been held in; perhaps, she thought, it had been designed that way to enhance her paranoia. 

The hallway she was dragged along was low and rounded, obviously used by the elves to get from one point to another in the house without detection. Despite its smaller scale, its opulence still surprised her. The carpet sank beneath her feet, the achingly soft fibers a welcome change to the hard cement that had been her only companion for the last several months.

Along the walls, sneering blond men stared down at her. It wasn’t difficult to place them: each bore the long, hooked nose that graced the elder Malfoy’s face, the same aristocratic jeer that marred the otherwise handsome faces. 

So this was a Malfoy home. Fitting that this horror had begun in a Malfoy residence and would also end in one. No matter how hard she tried, Hermione just couldn’t summon the energy to care about the irony the situation presented.

Nott waved his arm at a door near the end of the hallway, slamming it open. With a graceless yank, Hermione managed to extricate herself from his hold, and she hit the plush carpet with a soft  _ thud. _ . Rug burns sprang to life on her knees and palms where she tried and failed to catch herself. 

He towered over her, studying her with wary eyes. “Elly will be along shortly. Try not to get your filth on everything.”

With that, he was gone. 

Hermione sank into the plush carpet. How pathetic to luxuriate in something so simple, but she couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped her at the contact as she spread her tired limbs out over the floor. Staring at the ceiling, she watched as shadows passed by from the courtyard outside, the murmured voices of whatever guests had attended the revel washing over her.

At which of their hands would she die?

In her mind, she ran through the men she’d seen, imagining how each one might do it. A quiet  _ pop _ sounded, startling her from her reverie, and she squinted to focus on one of the little elves she’d seen cowering in the kitchen. Elly, they’d called her. Her too-long ears reached her shoulders, and she nervously wrung her hands in front of a tattered garment. She glanced at Hermione’s feet, studying the dirt and grime that covered them. Elly swiftly crossed the room to a door inlaid in the wall, so deep in the shadows that Hermione had missed it in her lazy perusal of the room. 

So much for constant vigilance.

Her shrill laughter echoed around the room, disbelief colouring her hysteria. 

The little elf turned the knob and it glided soundlessly inward. With a crook of her head, the elf disappeared within. Seconds later, the sound of running water reached Hermione’s ears.

Despite herself, tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she stared up at the crown molding along the perimeter of the room. It had been so long since she’d been afforded the luxury of fresh running water. That she might have a warm bath, even if she wasn’t able to bathe herself— a strangled moan escaped her as the knot in her stomach unraveled just a bit.

Hermione wondered if Malfoy knew the kindness he had offered her in allowing her to bathe. Despite everything, the despair that was a constant companion in her soul, the knowledge that this was likely the end of it all—

At least she would feel clean.

When the elf appeared in the doorway once more, Hermione heaved herself to her feet, her limbs creaking in protest, and lunged toward the bathroom.

Had she been of clearer mind, she would have marveled at the hundreds of different soaps that lined the edge of the tub, the mountain of bubbles each was likely to offer even the servants in the household, but all she cared about was her single-minded trek to the bathtub. Steam curled from its surface, tempting her to dive in, and she quickly divested her ruined shirt and pants, braced herself on the edge of the tub, and slowly swung her legs over the edge.

Hermione sank bonelessly into the water, a long groan of satisfaction tempered only by the nearly too-hot water. It was almost too much, and the tears threatened to spill over. The heady scent of gardenias rose from the water, and Hermione sank in up to her neck, inhaling the fumes until her head spun.

The little elf watched her the entire time, eyes wide and weary. Hermione finally faced her again; Elly’s lips trembled for half a second before they set into a resolute line, and she reached for the soap.

Shame filled Hermione’s core, hot and sharp, at the knowledge that the elf would have to bathe her. Once surrounded by the warmth of the water, the scent of the flowers, every last bit of strength she had leached away into the water. Finally, after so long in her prison, she allowed her guard to slip down, and her head fell backward, clanging against the metal tub with a sharp clunk, the pain registering distantly as warmth invaded her bones for the first time in over a year.

With a gentle hand, Elly encouraged Hermione to slip further into the tub, and she cupped a handful of water and ran it over her lumpy curls. Hermione’s eyes met the elf’s and she saw the sympathy pass through them, the sorrow that the elf felt for her. The little creature began to gently wash her hair, and Hermione swallowed her whispered thanks before giving herself over to reluctant acceptance.

The elf worked in silence for several moments, the only sound in the room Hermione’s shuddering breath and the splash of water. Soon, far sooner than Hermione was used to, the water rusted, all of the blood caked in her hair finally washed free after months of captivity. With an apologetic lilt to her lips, the little elf drained the tub, leaving Hermione shivering as she sat nude before her.

Unable to bear the silence, Hermione peered at the elf. “Thank you.” Elly bowed her head, so Hermione continued. “How—how long have you been employed by the Malfoys?” Her throat was scratchy with disuse. 

Elly gave a sad shake of her head and shrugged. She didn’t know, but— “Has Malfoy commanded you not to speak?”

Again, the elf shook her head. After a few moments, she began to refill the tub again, and Hermione studied her. When the elf looked at her again, she wrung her hands, glanced toward the door, and finally pointed to her mouth, shaking her head before she busied herself with adding the same gardenia scented soap to the bath.

Horror dawned on Hermione as she followed the way the elf moved, her gnarled fingers clasping over the knobs of the tub and changing the temperature of the water. The way her throat bobbed awkwardly like she wanted to say something. Like she  _ couldn’t  _ say something.

Because her tongue had been removed.

Revulsion roiled in her stomach, a sharp, angry twist to her stomach. Hermione's brows knitted together as she watched the elf, wondering what on earth the little creature could have done to earn such treatment. What little gratefulness she felt toward Malfoy’s kindness in letting her bathe died in that moment.

Elly reached for the knobs, turning the water off, and when she turned toward Hermione, Elly recoiled from the apology in Hermione’s eyes. Elly began to scoop water and rinse Hermione’s hair with jerky movements, panic clear in her features. And still Hermione did not apologise or make the elf stop because she knew that punishment would await the creature if she didn’t complete her task.

For long minutes, the bath continued in agonising silence until the water ran clean and the elf conjured a fluffy towel. Hermione willed herself upward, standing on wobbly legs and knelt before the creature, allowing her to towel her off. The elf snapped again and dried her hair, the rat’s nest soothed, and Hermione grasped the creature’s hand with whispered thanks. The creature bowed her head once more and motioned for Hermione to follow her out of the room.

Hermione’s filthy clothes were gone, replaced by robes folded on the end of a narrow bed pushed into the corner. The elf motioned her to sit on the edge of the bed and slowly began to unfold them.

Swaths of fine fabric cascaded from the elf’s hands, pooling on the floor between them, and a sharp inhale caught in Hermione’s throat. It was beautiful, dark fabric, and she had no need to touch it to determine how ridiculously expensive it was. The dress cut a sharp angle, and she knew it was designed to cut across her body in a sharp slash, accentuating her figure—or lackthereof—from the months she’d spent on the run and then captive.

Elly stood and crossed the room, motioning her toward the small vanity. Her heart stuttered to a stop when the light caught the fabric.

Crimson. 

It was the same blood-red colour of the Vehme. 

With a sharp shake of her head, Hermione scrambled across the bed, refusing the get up as a litany of disbelief chorused in her head. 

Of all the things she’d expected — death, torture — this was not it. To be outfitted in their garb, a broken marionette on display… she couldn’t fathom it.

And yet… it was the only logical explanation for what they had done to her.

They’d broken her, so thoroughly that she’d lost herself, that she had sunk down into that darkness inside her, and even now, knowing what they wanted her to do, what they asked of her, she couldn’t find it within herself to care more than her horror allowed. 

Despite herself, something inside her settled. It was something like acceptance, a bitter tang on her tongue as her chin lifted and made eye contact with the elf. At Elly’s bolstering nod, Hermione stood and crossed the room.

It was difficult to get into the dress. The straps caught on her uncoordinated limbs, and she nearly toppled over into the vanity. An exasperated sigh escaped her, and she pushed herself upright. With shaking fingers, Hermione gathered her mane of curls and pulled it over her shoulders, allowing Elly to slide the zipper home as the door to the room swung open.

Malfoy.

Closing the door quickly behind him, Malfoy crossed the expanse of the room and studied her. His eyes gleamed in the dark, predatory in their assessment of her, but the expression bore only simple calculation. 

His breath fanned over her face as his gaze flickered from iris to iris. “Thank you, Elly. Go back to the kitchens.” The house-elf sank into a deep bow with a final regretful glance before she blinked and disappeared from the room with the same quiet crack that she’d arrived in.

At the newfound silence, Hermione refused to acknowledge her terror.  _ If it is be my end _ , she thought, _ I’ll at least face it with some small measure of dignity _ . Her shoulders straightened, and even as she winced at the pain, she met his gaze in the mirror.

His suit was charcoal, she noticed, different from the pitch black of the other Vehme. Her mind struggled to make sense of it, although it seemed important, and when realisation dawned on her that both Malfoy and Ron wore the same muted shade, her mind whirled. They worked together.

She had no time to wallow in the sorrow that coursed through her as Malfoy’s gaze snapped to hers with a vengeance, and suddenly he was in her mind again.

It was short, mercifully, but he pulled the memory of Harry’s death forward, the emerald flash of her wand—the only time she had ever used that spell—and her remembered scream, the agony still fresh in her bones, as her best friend crumpled to the floor before her, his chest still. 

He pulled out of her memories, his cheshire grin meeting her gaze in the mirror, and he pressed into her back, wiping the tear away from her face. 

“Now, now,” he crooned, “there’s no need to cry. Chin up before the Dark Lord, Mudblood.” His expression was mocking in the mirror, any trace of the sympathy she thought she’d seen there before gone. “He’s been waiting quite a while for you.” 

She glared at him in the mirror, the darkness lurking within her inexplicably reaching for him, and try as she might, she couldn’t force it back down. “Back straight, Mudblood.” 

Against her volition, the darkness swelled within her, its inky tendrils coiling along her spine and snapping it straight. Cheerless laughter filtered into her ear, and goosebumps raised along her spine. His hand curved over her bare shoulder, and she spun, terrible realisation crashing into her. 

“You answer to me, Granger. I thought you’d have figured it out by now.” His hand brushed her collarbone, sweeping along the swell of the bone as he leaned in and with a barely audible whisper, “Now, play nicely, and you’ll make it out of this alive. There are eyes everywhere.” His gaze bore into hers, the warning turning his grey eyes stormy, and she swallowed a knot in her throat with a nod.  

With Malfoy at her back, she exited the room on bare feet, the crimson gown swirling around her ankles.

A lamb to the slaughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot moves forward. I want to shout out In Dreams, mcal, LadyKenz347, and msmerlin13 this chapter for being incredible friends. You ladies rock, and I appreciate your encouragement. Beta creds to tofadeawayagain for her amazing and tireless work -- thanks for making my words grammatically sound :)


	9. The Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickly before the chapter - thank you all so much for reading along, and thank you for helping this reach 200 followers! You're all incredible, and I appreciate everyone reading along so much. More notes after the chapter!

  **Chapter 9 – _The Emperor_**

Each step down the hall tightened the knot in Hermione's chest until it felt like it would crush the air from her lungs before she even stepped foot into the grand ballroom.

Malfoy walked with measured steps behind her. She didn't need to slow or turn back to know that his wand was out and pointed at the middle of her back. It was silly, really. She'd already accepted death. At this point she welcomed it. She'd nowhere to run but faster towards it.

Her mind raced, and her sweat slicked palms ached to dry themselves on the slinky fabric of the sacrificial garb she'd been dressed in. Her eyes trailed the hall, discovering the same sneering portraits and closed doorways.

No escape. Not now, not ever. Hell, even if she somehow found a way out of the Manor, Malfoy still held a sick compulsion over her. One word from his lips, and she'd never take another step again.

She stepped once again onto the cold tile floor of the kitchen, and she thought for a fleeting moment that perhaps it had been a premise, that Malfoy had taken her from the depths of the cellar to instill the tiniest amount of false hope in her. The metal door that led to her prison taunted her, a reminder that it could all be over again in an instant. But another mental prod of the compulsion magic he'd hit her with sent her feet trailing in the opposite direction, heading for the worn oak door opposite the cellar, hope flooding her veins and sending her heart racing.

Their feet were soundless as they crossed the room, row after row of shiny porcelain plates gleaming behind the glass cabinets. When her eyes settled on the drying knives beside the sink, she begged every muscle, every nerve in her body to just obey her and reach out, grab it, plunge it into—

But Malfoy simply huffed a mirthless chuckle. "I'm surprised you still have any fight left in you, Granger." Her surname on his lips was too familiar, a reminder of a past she'd lost long ago, and Hermione continued on, not even a finger twitching in recognition of the will screaming through her muscles.

She was worthless. After all of Harry's attempts to teacher her how to resist the  _Imperius_  on the run, and after all of her efforts to learn how to block an unwelcome presence in her mind with Occlumency, she couldn't find a way to slip out of his mental grasp. She couldn't even blink away the tears that gathered…" in the corners of her eyes without his command. Still she couldn't fathom what Merlin-damned curse she'd been hit with.

They stalked past more rooms, each of them a blur, until her feet met smooth tile once more. A string quartet played softly somewhere beyond the sea of people dressed in their finery, harbingers of death wrapped in silk and pearls and swaying to her death knell, bile rising in her throat to accompany the dread well-lodged within her. A slight tremour passed through her hands at the sight of them, the former Death Eaters, twirling about the dance floor or standing in hushed clumps around the edges of the room, glasses of fine wine clasped in their hands.

On the far side of the room, a dais stood. It was barely visible through the tears that clouded her vision at the sudden onslaught of light. Though she tried to blink, tried to force the moisture she could feel threatening to spill over, the compulsion kept them at bay.

On the dais, Voldemort sat.

A chill ran through Hermione, beginning at her toes and slowly crawling upward, a cold breeze that stole the breath from her lungs. Yet still, not an inch of her moved until Malfoy urged her forward.

How she knew it was him was beyond her, but something within her recognized the brush of his intentions against that dark place inside her. The feeling of his magic was a dull thrum, and the depths of her darkness called to it, curled around it, and answered his magic's commands. Hermione was revolted at the thought that something within her found Malfoy even remotely appealing. She would have choked on it had he not forced her forward toward what she could only assume was her demise, coaxing the breath to gust in and out of angry lungs as she crossed the room.

Silence blanketed the dance floor as they moved through the crowd. Laughter died in the middle of choked breaths. Dancers straightened from dips and whirls to stare at her.

As if the guests were of one mind, they parted, revealing a path to Voldemort.

Her feet did not falter, her breath did not hitch. With Draco behind her, Hermione stood tall, her eyes trained on the foot of the dais through no intention of her own.

Her instincts raged under her skin, begging her to run. The curse did nothing to quiet them – instead, it blindly ignored them.

Her hips swayed awkwardly as she walked, an altogether seductive gait that she'd never mastered before and felt foreign now, the leers of the others in the room crawling uncomfortably over skin. Try as she might, she couldn't force her steps to slow, her hips to resume her normal pace as she stared forward, unblinking. The tension in her ramrod straight back threatened to send fresh tears from her eyes.

Yet Malfoy refused to let her stand down.

Hermione didn't have time to question his intention as she marched up to the vile creature lounging in the silver throne. She didn't pause to consider that perhaps her stature was a trap, that her straight chin was a defiance of every individual who stood in the room.

The whispers began when she came to a stop before Voldemort with her chin still held high.

Voldemort's expression dripped of bored annoyance at her interruption, the same insolence he'd always had, his surety of power, wrapped around him like a cheap cloak. Nagini sat draped over his shoulders and down his arm, his hand absentmindedly stroking the triangle of her head while the beast's tongue slithered out to caress his battered knuckles.

The magic that had curled around the dark place within her vanished. Malfoy withdrew, and the strength he had given her left her hollow. She could physically feel his absence in her exhausted muscles.

Hermione fought. Through sheer willpower she tried to remain upright on shaking legs. But it was useless; she collapsed in a heap before the dais. Titters sounded around the room, but one in particular hollowed out the rest. Hermione couldn't retain the shudder of horror when the owner sidled up next to Voldemort's throne. The only person given even the slightest bit of authority to do so.

Bellatrix.

Hermione noted that she wasn't donning the traditional colors of the Vehme, instead shrouded in normal black from tip to toe. This in no way indicated Bellatrix LeStrange's innocence, as it was well known that she often partook in some of the more lethal activity. Bellatrix had listened to and elicited screams from Hermione.

Revulsion roiled in her stomach and Hermione stared at the tile floor, refusing to watch the woman caress Voldemort's shoulder, to watch her head tilt to the side to study Hermione as though she was something small or inhuman. Hermione knew that the woman had more in mind than just a simple death.

She liked to play with her food.

All the sound muffled to a dull roar in Hermione's ears, and though she rested on the floor before the man she hated most in the world, she remembered all the people she would fight for.

For Harry. For Ginny. For the other Weasleys she'd never had a chance to tell goodbye. For all the innocent students who were killed for simply being born as  _other_.

For herself.

Hermione pushed herself to her feet before him. Though her legs screamed in pain, and a stitch in her side howled in agony, she glared the man down. Silence once more descended on the ballroom as Voldemort's eyes flashed with hatred at her defiance.

The silence was deafening as she refused to back down from the man—the  _monster_ —that had destroyed the world she loved.

Voldemort studied her intently for a moment before he threw his head back in laughter. Tentative laughs echoed around the crowd as his Death Eaters followed suit. The sound tapered off as he suddenly leveled his gaze on her once more. She refused to shiver under the inhuman stare.

With one quick motion, Voldemort swept out of his chair and out from beneath Bellatrix's touch, his cloak swirling about him. Behind her, she felt Malfoy's presence slip further away.

Voldemort tucked his hands behind his back and began pacing a circle around her. She lost her war with herself and allowed a small tremour to run through her when he gathered her hair in his fist and inhaled deeply. His voice quickly followed.

"So, you've decided that you'll stop fighting." He let her hair fall back over her shoulder and came to stand in front of her once more. "Tell me, Mudblood, what changed your mind?"

A million thoughts crossed her mind, none worth speaking aloud, before she finally settled on one that was mostly the truth. "I'm tired."

Voldemort let loose a rather undignified snort, and his followers shifted uneasily around the room. "And why should I accept you into my ranks, even if forced, if you simply join because you're tired?"

Hermione started, his question awakening a new fear in her, a fear that burrowed into the very sinews of her bones. She swallowed and said, "Because I'm all that they have left." She lifted her chin, the burning in her eyes a study in contrast to the sorrow that was a stone in her stomach. "Without me, they have no light. The Order has no one. Harry is dead. Ron is yours. The Order is destroyed. Without me, they are lost."

He watched her intently, waiting. And suddenly she knew, deep in her soul, that she would either offer him what he wanted to grasp a fleeting chance of staying alive long enough to escape or be struck down. With a stuttering breath, Hermione delivered the final blow to the Order's miniscule reserve of hope, speaking the words she hadn't even allowed herself to think. To barter for her life. "I'll destroy them for you. Th—they trust me. I'd be accepted back with open arms and—" The words stuck in her throat, and she forced them past her lips. "I'd do that for you."

With a shuddering breath, she continued. "I will be their salvation then usher them to hell." And, closing her eyes against the shame that she felt coursing through her body, she bowed her head and bent at the waist, pledging fidelity.

The silence stretched on as she waited, head bowed and eyes closed. It was broken by a single ripple of wicked laughter. A rush of wind forced her head upward, her eyes burst open and met his gaze, and she was walking across the floor. Voldemort's wand was held aloft, pointed directly at her, and he flicked it, forcing her to her knees and face upward. When she was properly splayed before him, he turned to his followers, who cheered at the maniacal gleam in his eyes. Swinging his arms wide, he spoke to the crowd.

"And so the Order's Golden Girl falls, too weak to fight but not  _noble_ enough to die fighting for what she believes." Voldemort spat the words over her, and she was powerless to cringe away from the spittle falling on her face. "How the mighty have fallen. But now—" he turned to the crowd, arms stretched, and Hermione tried to ignore the chasm in her gut, the way the words settled in her chest like an anchor, pulling her further into despair. "—now the Wizarding World will know true power."

A cheer swelled through the crowd, and the Death Eaters edged forward, eager to have a front row seat to the show. Fighting through the pull of the  _Imperio,_ she forced her eyes shut. When he turned, he forced them open once more.

"Those who oppose me will cower in the shadows of our world until we find them. We will eliminate them, and we will live in power, in glory." Wordlessly, he forced Hermione to her feet, and though she tried, she could not stop from crossing the room and awkwardly embracing him.

His voice rumbled against her chest, but she was no longer listening—the silver-blonde and black hair of Narcissa Malfoy caught her gaze, and she watched as the skin around the woman's eyes tightened imperceptibly, barely-there crow's feet spider-webbing outward.

Hermione fell into the icy-blue gaze, Voldemort's recitation droning on behind her.

Narcissa blinked slowly, once, lifting the glass of champagne in a subtle toast before bringing it to her lips, taking a sip, and breaking eye contact.

Before she could dwell any longer, Voldemort's impassioned speech drew her attention again.

"We will root them out of their hovels and make them pay for forcing us to live in the shadows of Muggle filth for so long." The crowd jeered. "Now  _I_  am the shadow, and the valley is mine. And when I am through, there will be no one left to oppose me." He leveled his wand on her again, and Hermione was struck suddenly by the gravity of the mistake she had made.

She was upright and moving, her hair whipping about her as she crossed the room. At some point, Malfoy had slipped into a seat next to Voldemort's. He peered down at her with hostile amusement, and she would have shivered if she could have fought through the control Voldemort held over her. When she halted in front of Malfoy, she felt Voldemort slide behind her.

Rancid breath gusted over her shoulder, and a hand cupped her jaw. "What do you think, dear boy?" Her jaw tilted upright, exposing the hollow of her neck. "She's a Mudblood, yes, but we all must sometimes do things we don't particularly agree with—for the good of the cause, yes?"

Malfoy swallowed and nodded once in the affirmative, his gaze following Voldemort's grip on her neck, down her body to the tips of her feet, dirty from her trek through the house, before making their way back to her face. A cruel smirk slowly unfurled across his face, and her stomach plummeted. With a flippant wave of his hand, he said, "I suppose she'll do."

Voldemort chuckled, and suddenly the hold of the spell on her was gone and she swayed before before Malfoy. She scrambled to right herself and tried to back away as the shame burned her cheeks.

Hermione couldn't calm the racing of her heart. Desperate magic crackled at the tips of her hair, the only magic she'd been able to summon in months, but her frazzled mind was too far gone to use it. When Malfoy stood from the chair and towered over her, a sob tore from her throat.

All the things she'd come to value and stand for had been ripped from her in an instant. She'd thought they would use her to their advantage, poison her mind so thoroughly that all remnants of her old self would be gone. It would be easier, she thought, to forget it all and become the person that they needed.

Instead, she had walked into their trap. No, it wasn't enough to break her down and destroy everything she loved. They wanted her to remember it, to wallow in the pain of every single death she would cause.

They wanted her to burn.

When Malfoy's hands fisted in her hair, her head craned upward to stare back at him. His hard, grey eyes stared down at her. She shouldn't have been surprised, but the distinct lack of emotion in their depths tore to the very core of her soul and stripped her bare. This man was broken and desperate, and he'd do anything to destroy her if it helped him reach the top.

His throne sat upon a pile of skeletons, and soon hers would be just one more to add to the pile.

When his lips curled upward in a sneer, she flinched back, eyes closed.

He wrenched her hair, and she felt some of it tear away at the root. "You will not look away when I am in your presence, Mudblood."

She whimpered, barely cognizant of Malfoy's demand. She had made a mistake, and she needed a way out. The logical part of her brain screamed that there was no way out, but she had forsaken her logic. Instead, all she could feel was the bloody incessant fear of death, the screaming in her mind, and the gaping chasm that had opened in the pit of her stomach threatening to swallow her whole.

Words fell from her lips, an incoherent babble alternating between a litany of names that she had failed and a heartbroken plea and apology—to who or for what she didn't know. Malfoy stared down at her in disgust and threw her to the ground.

The cracking of her head on the ground reverberated around the room, but it brought her a clarity of mind that she had long become divorced from. Voldemort was somewhere behind her commanding for Draco to take control of his possession, to initiate her into their ranks, but she couldn't help but stare at the blood that seeped from the gaping wound on her forehead.

She must have hit a chip in the tile; that was the only explanation her ravaged mind could assign the injury. Her blood pooled below her, an angry, dirty red mixing with the filth on the floor, and she smiled distantly as the room flickered around her. How foolish they were to allow her to lie here, bleeding so profusely. She tried not to make a sound, hoping that they would forget her— _if only_  they would just forget her—and she could pass from this world without so much as a second thought.

Hermione's blood seeped into the cracks between tiles, and a small part of her was satisfied. She remembered how hard it was to get bodily fluids out of such small cracks; she'd spent many days scrubbing at the flooring in various hovels when the war had first broken out. Dean Thomas had bled out on the floor of Shell Cottage, and she hadn't been able to remove all the traces of his blood even though she'd scrubbed for hours. Charlie Weasley had lost nearly as much blood when his arm had been Splinched. There had been little else left of Neville when he'd been cursed by Dolohov, but she'd struggled to clean up his blood too. Their faces passed through her mind in a blur, and she smiled at the irony.

How fitting that this spot on the floor would bear testament to her destruction long after she'd faded beyond the Veil.

A curse and a bright flash of light banished her mournful yearning, and she was suddenly upright. The bleeding stopped, and she could feel the gash in her brow knitting back together. Malfoy's twisted smirk met her gaze. "Potter's Golden Girl doesn't get off that easy, Granger.  _Teneantur_."

Dread unfurled in Hermione as the familiar curse, the one she'd heard spoken only once before, washed over her. She fought the curse tooth and nail despite how weak she was from the blood loss. Maybe it was how close she'd been to death, to that escape that she so desperately wanted from the shitehole that the wizarding world had become, but she suddenly felt a fierce desire to live. To fight. To  _win_. She'd seen Harry work through it, fighting to maintain his sense of self, but try as she might, she couldn't escape Malfoy's commands running through her veins.

She could hear him in her head, his voice echoing and bouncing off the walls of her subconscious as he sneered at her to kneel before him. Her knees hit the ground with a dull thud, and she bent forward to dip in a farce of a bow when he commanded it. Harsh breaths gusted in and out of her, the only sign of her distress.

_Don't break, don't break, don't break._

Voldemort came forward from the shadows, a swath of dark cloth over his arm, handing it to Malfoy with a flourish. With a wave of Voldemort's wand, she was prone before Malfoy once more, staring up at him as though he was a saviour come to absolve her sins and not her damnation incarnate.

Voldemort faced the crowd, and their jeering went silent.

"Kneel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tofadeawayagain deserves a major shoutout for this chapter - seriously, she's incredible! She's always so busy, but she manages to beta these chapters for me every week without fail, and I am indebted to her. If you haven't started it yet, drop everything and go read her WIP The Promise! It's wonderful, and I'm in love with it. Thanks for working with me, wonderful friend! As always, LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin 13 are badass alpha babes, and I appreciate them. This fic is not possible without my incredible team of ladies working behind scenes with me, and I would be absolutely remiss not to shout them out. Any remaining errors are my own.


	10. Eight of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! I'm sorry this update is a bit late; I signed for a rental house today! Out of the shoebox of an apartment and into a new-to-us house. With that, though, I wanted to note that updates might be a bit slow over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to try to post each week, but I'm not sure if I can make that happen. If you want updates, head over to my Tumblr account (xravenslight) where I'll update on Monday evening if I can't post. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 10 –** _**Eight of Wands** _

Hermione felt no pull on her magic at Voldemort's command. Instead of pain, she felt the warmth of Malfoy's magic, his steely grey eyes boring into the back of her head, and she dropped to her knees with her head bent. With one final caress, his magic prodded the dam she'd unwittingly built against the darkness within her - her final, desperate attempt to ward it away. At Draco's insistence, the dam burst, causing the darkness to wash over her.

Sinking into his spell was what she imagined a high would feel like. She was aware of her actions, but they existed only beyond a haze of glassy detachment. It was like jumping into a pool with a weight tied around her ankles; she welcomed the blissful oblivion that the darkness offered, and she sank into it with a lover's embrace.

It bore a curious warmth that she couldn't place, far too familiar for its endless depths, and her magic roiled against the command, battering within her chest once more before giving in to its siren's song.

Slowly—so slowly she thought she might have imagined it—the tingle of her magic returned to her. It broke from the staunched core within her and flowed serenely throughout her body, filling the aching gaps she'd become desensitized to in her months of captivity and torture. When it curled around her fingertips and sparked, she fought back a triumphant smile.

The curse wasn't done with her, though. It leached up her spine, a terrible crawling that began in her core and snaked around her bones, permeating into the very sinews of her body, and it rooted itself deep within her subconscious. Its tendrils whispered to her, promises of power and salvation, an ancient voice that rang in her ears, split her mind wide open with a rending gash, and delved deep into her inner self with unapologetic grace.

Distantly, she was aware that she writhed on the floor, that Voldemort's sycophants laughed gaily at her pain and forced submission. All she could focus on was that force within her, the curse that sought to strip her of her very being. As it bore into her memories, that night flashed before her.

" _You could be powerful." The words echoed in her head, bouncing off the flimsy walls she'd constructed to keep Lucius out._

_Her eyes darted back and forth to the other witches and wizards in the room. No one had made a sound after Ron had announced that he was a turncoat; they'd all shrunk into themselves in defeat._

_The Vehme watched her, hunger in their eyes. She had no doubt that they wanted to watch the Muggleborn break. No, she had no real option here. She was to either endure whatever torture Lucius thought best for her, a slow painful death at his hand, or she would agree to join them._

_The noise around her became a dull roar in her ears when the lone werewolf in the room licked his chops and stalked forward. She stared resolutely forward, refusing to show an ounce of fear despite the raging of her heart. When his hand tangled in her hair and roughly yanked her head backwards, she refused to let her grunt of pain escape._

_She didn't question what would happen—she knew. He would take his time to destroy her, and he would do it in front of everyone. When he used a long claw to rip open the front of her filthy shirt, she began her retreat within her mind. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her plead._

_Almost as quickly as he had grabbed her, a blasting spell crashed the far wall of the cellar inward, and Hermione was blown backwards, smacking her head against a chunk of marble._

_The room was chaos. Spells flew about, ricocheting off the walls. She dove to the floor as marble busts shattered above her, the jingle of the pieces a minor—_

And suddenly the curse wrenched out of the memory, burrowing further, deeper, until it found its destination: her love for her friends, her family, for magic itself shining starkly in its inky blackness. The tendrils shot out and wrapped around it, leaching it slowly away until a matching tendril, greyer than the others, reached out and formed a shield between it and the light it sought to take from her. She felt its dissatisfaction in her bones, the way it wrenched away - disapproving of its interruption - all that remained in its place beyond a single, flickering shadow of that love was stark ambition and drive.

Slowly, she regained her faculties. Air gusted out of her lungs, a searing stitch in her side growing with each harsh exhale. Silence reigned in the room, though she felt every eye on her keenly. Distantly, she was aware that she should feel dread. For herself. For those she loved. For the whole of the wizarding world.

And yet all she could feel was the flicker of magic within her once more.

The sheer depths of the power that now lay coiled beneath her racing heart.

Hermione didn't waste time in searching for an answer, didn't waste time in asking questions. Instead, she gathered her legs beneath her, no longer trembling in the horrid crimson gown, and stood to her full height. When she met Voldemort's gaze, surprise ignited in his expression before he smoothed it clean.

With a flick of his wrist, he gestured for her to turn around and distantly, so distantly she might have imagined it, that grey tendril of magic curled around her once more, guiding her feet, keeping her chin held high.

Within her, it whispered  _You will do what he says lest you're told otherwise._

When she was turned to face them, her chin high, Voldemort spoke to the crowd. "It is done. The Order has lost its princess."

The oak doors opened simultaneously, and the Vehme strode in, each adorned in their crimson cloaks, daggers and wands stashed within their billowing depths.

Where she might have once felt fear or anger at their confident stride, their utter destruction of both her and those she had loved, grim curiosity allowed her to trail her gaze over each one. Sizing them up. Judging the openings they left for a curse here, a hex there.

Within her, the magic tugged again.  _Not yet._

Silent booted feet halted in front of her and their ranks opened, revealing Ron near the back of the group. His leering smile met her gaze as he allowed the folded fabric on his arm to unfurl, to pool on the floor beneath his outstretched hand. "Welcome to the Vehme, 'Mione."

* * *

The Death Eaters celebrated as Ron draped the cloak around her shoulders, tying it neatly beneath her neck. She fought the urge to hiss at him, his too familiar fingers trailing along her collarbone as the cloak settled over her shoulder. If not for the audience, she would have cut him down on the spot.

As he resumed ranks among his men, she'd whispered a promise deep in the recesses of her mind:  _I will kill you._

A thought rubbed uncomfortably against her consciousness, akin to a cat begging for attention. She knew she should question the sudden change in her inclinations, the loss of her ever-present moral compass and the way that it guided her every decision... but the thought lacked conviction. She knew she should care—she just didn't. The void it left behind now bloomed with the rage she'd kept trapped inside. The horror she'd seen at all the death inflicted by those who stood grouped around her was suddenly locked away behind an iron door she could not pierce. The freedom it offered her, the escape from the terror that roiled within her, was a welcome escape.

As covertly as she could, she darted her gaze around the room, noting the exits and sizing up each man that stood in her way. Dolohov. LeStrange. Lucius. Yaxley. All of them stood grouped in the ranks, and she fought the curve of a sadistic smile that threatened when she thought of gutting each one.

When Voldemort raised his hand to silence them, Hermione allowed her gaze to trail the edges of the room. There, once more to Voldemort's left, stood the younger Malfoy, stone faced and contemplative. Staring at her before surveying the room with a blank expression.

Voldemort spoke. "Step forward."

Hermione's feet acted of their own accord. Before the dais, she stood in her crimson gown, the matching cloak one of the few swatches of colour amongst the formalwear of the others.

"Hermione Granger, you have been called to join the Vehme through the power of the  _Teneantur_." Voldemort studied his bony hands, the slender wand held between his fingertips.

Hermione waited, counting the beats of her heart in her ears, for his next words even as her mind raced to place the unfamiliar spell. "You are to work alongside these men and report to them. As it stands, Ronald Weasley will—"

"Wait."

Anger swelled in Voldemort's eyes as Draco stepped forward, one hand raised. "If it's all the same to you, my Lord, then I would like to volunteer to oversee her training."

Hermione heard Ron's snarl behind her, but she stared at Malfoy. His grey eyes refused to meet her own, instead peering up at Voldemort. If she wasn't mistaken, he was—

Voldemort erupted into a chuckle. "I don't take bargains, Malfoy. What is it you wish with the girl? Surely your mother and father would disprove of you sullying your line with a Mudblood."

Malfoy snarled. "If she's to be trained as an assassin, I should think that she would be trained by one of the most skilled members of the Vehme and not a new recruit."

Voldemort carefully considered Malfoy's words, his gnarled fingers steepled under his chin. Hermione once more felt her magic flare within her, its tendrils racing along her fingertips. It wanted to do something, to escape, too long trapped within her to fare much longer. When Voldemort inclined his head, he spoke. "The Mudblood is to be assigned to young Mister Malfoy, then." He silenced Ron's protesting behind her. "And should he displease me—" a sharp glance toward the man in question, who bore it without flinching "—then the Mudblood will be put to death."

Tittering laughter escaped Bellatrix, clapping her hands together, and Hermione simply inclined her head. With a gentle nudge of the magic, she dropped into a low curtsey, where she stayed until Voldemort spoke again. "Rise."

As though on autopilot, she rose again, bones protesting the deep squat after so long of disuse.

With a wave of his wand, Voldemort conjured another cage, a gilded gold, and the gate swung open. "A cage to remind you of your place should you fail to understand your role."

* * *

She stood within that cage for the rest of the evening. Neither large enough to sit or squat, her ankles had begun to protest, her thighs shaking at the effort it required to remain upright. And still they came to stare at her. To watch one of Dumbledore's chosen ones jump to the demands of the Dark Lord.

Their attacks bored her: uninspired and tired. After listening to a few of their heckles, she withdrew, exploring the depths of the magic within her.

It was a sentient thing, so unlike her that she marveled at the sheer strength it lent her. She felt the magic in every movement, sparking along her skin and entwining even in the tips of her hair. At the slightest motion, sparks leapt from her fingertips, and she smiled at the sheer power roiling within her.

With a wiggle of her fingers, she felt the familiar thrum of magic under her skin. It was everywhere, kissing her skin and lifting the ends of her curls. Roiling in the pit of her stomach in the space that had become so barren she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge it.

Power.

Gods, how she'd missed it.

Hermione had nearly forgotten what it was like to wield magic, rather than fear it.

The Death Eaters danced late into the night, and it wasn't until hours after the great clock within the hall tower struck midnight that someone spoke to her.

"Granger." The command beckoned within her weary bones, but she took her time to face him, smiling up into the impatience written clearly across his face.

Malfoy stared down his long nose at her, and with a muttered spell, the gilded cage door swung outward. Her protesting muscles screamed at the sudden movement as she stalked forward, but Hermione held her head high. When she stopped before him, Malfoy surveyed her.

"You're to come with me to the Manor, where you will be assigned a room." Malfoy's jaw twitched, and Hermione fought back a laugh at the irritation in his expression. "You are to stay within your chamber at all times unless called upon, and you're not to leave the premises without accompaniment. Is that clear?"

Her voice was foreign to her ears when she spoke. All traces of her lingering girlhood were gone, the fear that had laced every word since she'd gone on the run vanished. "Crystal." She rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache that had set in, and at the incline of his head, she followed Malfoy to the Floo she'd seen in the back of the ballroom. When Malfoy threw the powder into the grate and called out the Malfoy Manor, she stepped into the emerald flames and was whisked away.

* * *

Hermione vomited upon reaching the Manor.

Unaccustomed as she was to being upright, the sudden travel through all the grates was too hard on her body, and she glared at the puddle of sick before her. When Malfoy appeared, he only responded with a severe roll of his eyes and a bark of Tipsy's name.

Before Hermione could comment on it, he turned on his heel and marched across the room, throwing the doors open and continuing down the hall. Hermione followed without command.

The sound of her footfalls was lost in the cavernous space, just as she remembered it. She expected to feel a tinge of pain upon seeing the door to the drawing room, some kind of acknowledgement of the death she had witnessed there, but not even a flicker of it raced through her. Instead, she continued ahead with detachment, simply aiming to follow Malfoy to whatever destination he sought to take her.

When he disappeared through another door, she followed. Within the room was a study, deep mahogany furniture scattered about and the walls were covered in ancient tomes. Ripples of magic danced about the room, gliding over her skin and cracking against the magic she still allowed to linger on her fingertips. A brief memory of her father rubbing his socks against the carpet and chasing her through the house flitted to the surface of her mind before she dismissed it.

Seated behind the desk in a plush chair was a man nearly identical in appearance to the young Malfoy before her.

_Lucius._

Behind him, Narcissa Malfoy stood with her hand clasped gently on her husband's shoulder. Both were still clad in their revelry wear, and Hermione admired the picture of warped domesticity they made.

Draco motioned her forward, and she stopped just before the desk, watching Lucius' eyes tighten as he surveyed her.

His gaze was sharper than his son's—crueler, somehow—and where once she might have cringed from the expression, now she allowed the magic to dance around her like a shield, static charging the air between them until Lucius' mouth tilted up at the corners.

"You're a powerful witch, Ms. Granger. It's a shame that it took so long to break you." Lucius steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, choosing his words carefully. "You're to be part of the Vehme, but that doesn't mean that you have a free ride here. One toe out of line, and you will be punished."

Hermione inclined her head, but not before she noticed the gleam of dissatisfaction in his eyes, the subtle tightening of Narcissa's impeccably manicured fingertips tightening on his spotless suit jacket. "Since my son has taken you on as his…  _pet,_ you're to be living in the west wing. I expect not to see you unless summoned."

Her lip curled, insolent words that she would have never dreamed of uttering before lingering on the tip of her tongue. At Draco's pointed knod, though, she swept into a forced curtsey, so deep her nose nearly brushed the carpet. When her hair swung to cover her face, she forced a sneer through the draped fringe, safely hidden where the elder Malfoy would not see her.

With a snap of Malfoy's fingers, she was righted and Tipsy appeared before her. The elf took her hand and led her from the room, leaving the masters of the house behind the heavy oak door that slammed shut.

Rooms passed in a blur as the little elf hurtled through the hallway, muttering incoherently under her voice the entire way. When they reached the west wing, Tipsy finally addressed her. "Miss' room is on the left, Master's Draco's adjacent. Tipsy brings you food to your chambers. Yous not to leave. If yous need anything, Tipsy comes."

Hermione swallowed a sigh, waiting for the elf to open the door. Upon stepping over the threshold, Hermione rolled her eyes.

The room was opulent, obviously meant for the betrothed of the Malfoy's heir. She turned her nose up at the furnishings, smirking arrogantly at the scowling portraits on the walls and the cushioned carpet beneath her toes. Instead, she crossed the room to the curtained four-poster bed piled high with pillows. The little elf still spoke behind her, but Hermione waved her hand lazily, dismissing the elf with a lofty "I'll see you tomorrow, Tipsy."

She stared up at the canopy, her mind seeking some kind of answer for the day's events to no avail. And then, just as suddenly as the magic had awoken her, it settled. The sparks in her hair faded, the twitch in her fingertips begging to be released calmed.

And though she tried to ignore the impossible silkiness of the sheets, the way her body seemed to sink into their embrace so differently than the cold cement had cradled her, Hermione still found herself burrowing into the creature comfort as exhaustion won and sleep claimed her.

**End of Part I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached the end of Part I. Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13. Beta love to tofadeawayagain. I'm eager to hear what you think!


	11. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry this is a day late - it's been busy here!

**Part 2: The Undoing**

**Chapter 11 -** _**Death** _

**March 1998**

_The choice is yours._

The words had barely left Lucius’ mouth before chaos erupted in the room. 

Jets of colour and debris exploded around Hermione.

She didn’t even have time to cast a _Protego_ or brace herself for the impact. Rubble rained around her as she flew through the air. 

When she collided with the stone behind her, the air in her lungs whisked out in a pained gasp, and she felt her ribs crack in protest. 

The room was bedlam. Jets of emerald, ruby, and purple light bounced off the walls, shouts echoed through the dust, but all of it was muted by the dull ringing in her ears.

Distantly, Hermione was aware that she needed to move, to fight back and try to get to as many of her friends as she could. 

With a quick slash of her wand, Hermione shielded herself and moved in the general direction she thought they’d taken Ginny, the wand fire flickering in the dust-filled air lighting her way.

Groans and moans filled the air and Hermione struggled not to fixate on them, nor on the blood pooling and staining the floor beneath her. Instead, she scuttled through the fray, firing hexes and jinxes at the robed men around her. A stinging hex clipped her shoulder, and she crumpled, teeth gritting around a shout at the instantaneous swelling. 

Before she could focus on the pain, a figure emerged from the plumes of dust, a sneer twisting his aristocratic face. 

“This is your last chance, Mudblood.” Lucius Malfoy flicked his wand, and another bolt of white wand fire erupted from his wand tip and collided with her knee. The pain seared through her, causing her to double over. “The Dark Lord could use power such as yours. Such ambition. Such cunning. All wrapped up in that tenacious Gryffindor courage.”

He stalked forward a few metres, stopping just short of her. He walked behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder, and she flinched. 

“We could corrupt you,” he said, fingers trailing her shoulder as he walked slowly around her: a warning and mockery of a lover’s caress. “It would be _so easy_.” The words slid down her back and sent a trail of fearful gooseflesh in its wake.

She crawled backward on the rubble-covered ground, groping sightlessly for her lost wand. Just when the man reared his wand upward, a blast of white light knocked him backward.

A relieved laugh escaped her as the blast cleared the dust and revealed a wand hand’s length away, but before she could move, her eyes focused on the rippling of the air just a few feet away.

Suddenly, the dust and debris cleared momentarily, exposing her companions fighting Death Eaters around her as a blast of wand light cleared and a shield flickered.

Hermione was too transfixed by the mop of black hair that appeared from beneath an invisibility cloak before her to heed the fighting around her. 

_Harry_. 

The wiry man stepped out from beneath the cloak, his wand already firing in haphazard slashes and arcs, disarming Death Eaters and casting shields to cover the injured wizards. 

He’d lived. _The boy who always lived_. 

Relief flooded through her, tempered only by the feeling of nerves racing in her chest. How in the world he managed to sneak into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor was beyond her, but none of that mattered. He was here. 

A shadow fell over her, blocking Harry from her vision.

Sound roared back to her all at once. Hermione stared up into Ron’s detached gaze, and her stomach rioted within her. 

“Come on, ‘Mione.” A freckled hand reached out to her, and for just a moment, she allowed herself to forget. To look past the dirt on his nose. To ignore the sounds of battle around them. To wish desperately that the circumstances were anything but what they were.

Another blast shook the drawing room and Ron’s gaze tightened into a snarl. Hermione wrenched herself backward. Mercifully, her hand clasped over her fallen wand as Ron bent over her, his face twisting as she shot a spell over his shoulder. With a tremulous gasp, she whispered, “ _Petrificus Totalus._ ”

Ron collapsed before her, and Hermione scrambled to her feet, her apology lost in the din around her as she desperately searched for Harry.

To her horror, Harry stood before her, wand raised and body crouched in a defensive stance. Lucius Malfoy sneered down at them.

“So you’ve finally found the gall to show up for those who would risk their lives for you. I have to say, Potter, it’s a little late, even for you.”

Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened, and she opened her mouth to fire back a retort when Harry spoke. “Eat shit, Malfoy.”

Grim satisfaction raced through her, and Hermione sidled up next to Harry, wand pointed at Lucius.

Lucius bared his teeth at them in a semblance of a smile and inclined his head. “If that’s how this will be, then so be it. _”_ An flicker of magic rent the air with a twist of his wand. 

Though Hermione had expected the attack, there was little she could do to shield them from the blast of magic. Debris from the ruined ceiling rose into the air and crashed around them, and she dropped to a knee, sending hex after hex blindly into the fray. 

Harry stumbled through the debris until he was beside her. The pair fired curse after curse at Lucius Malfoy, but none of them struck their mark. Around them, cries of pain echoed off the walls, and Hermione tried to ignore the desperation that rose in her like a wave threatening to drown her.

“Get to the others!” Harry shouted over the din, sending a well-placed _Relashio_ that finally managed to cut through Lucius’ shields and clipped his wandless hand. “I’ll find Ginny and get her out of here.” 

With a quick shout, Hermione grabbed Harry by the collar of his t-shirt, pulling him to the ground before an _Orbis_ seared through the air he had occupied moments before. She pulled him behind a shattered chandelier, poor coverage but a shield nonetheless. “Are you mad? Harry, you’ll be killed if you’re caught. Or worse. You never know—” a deafening crash sounded throughout the room as more of the vaulted ceiling fell to the floor. Beyond them, someone cursed.

Harry peered over the chandelier and fired another hex into the haze. A cry of pain signaled that he had hit his mark. He returned to his crouched position, his expression pleading as he grabbed her shoulders. His grip knocked the wand out of her hand, sending it rolling beneath the edge of the chandelier. “Please, Hermione. I need you to get out of here. I can’t bear losing you. Ron—”

A bolt of pain lanced through Hermione, and she held up her hand. “Ron’s gone. We can’t—”

“Well, isn’t this just lovely?” A cold voice drawled above them, and both Hermione and Harry froze, eyes wide in fear.

Lucius Malfoy once again stood before them, Ron at his right shoulder and Draco Malfoy hovering several feet behind them.

A clumsy flick of Ron’s wand and muttered _Expelliarmus_ had Harry’s wand clattering to the ground. Hermione prayed that he wouldn’t see the tip of hers peering out from beneath the glass and shifted to conceal it, her heart in her throat. 

Ron peered down at them, a flicker of his old self in his eyes. “Come on, ‘Mione. I can help you. We can be better. _Together._ ” 

Hermione shook her head, inching her hand backward until it closed around the wand tip poking out. Her heart started in relief when she realized that, mercifully, the handle was the end nearest her. She shifted her weight, trying to find a position that would afford her mobility.

“Ron, listen to me.” Harry rose to his feet, his hands held up placatingly. “ Do you think they give a shite about you? They’re using you!” The slight tremor in Harry’s voice sent a wave of grief through Hermione, but Ron’s expression didn’t waver.  “I know things haven’t been easy, being on the run. Think about your family, about Molly and Ginny and— hell, think about me and ‘Mione.. Remember what side they’re on.” 

Ron’s eyes tightened, a furrow coming to his brow. Indecision rippled over his face, and for a split second, Hermione thought she saw his wand tip lower infinitesimally. 

And then Lucius stepped forward, his lips pulled up in a mocking smile.

“Really, Potter, if you want applause for that speech, you’re looking in the wrong place.” Lucius looked to Hermione. “And no words from the Golden Girl. How disappointing. I thought you might have at least spared a crocodile tear or two.” 

Hermione rose to her feet, wand hand still concealed behind her though she shook with both fear and rage. Behind Lucius, Ron’s expression clouded back over, and his wand rose steadily again until it pointed at them both over Lucius’ shoulder.

Ron spoke again. “‘Mione, this is your last chance.” He leveled a look at her, a pantomime of pleading. “Him or me?” 

Lucius rolled his eyes, clearly sick of the games. “We’ll settle this now, shall we?” With a flick of his wrist, a flash of emerald fire spewed from his wand, colliding with her chest, and Hermione went down.

The world screeched to a halt for a moment before crawling into slow motion. 

As she waited for the black endlessness of death, a harsh warmth spread through her chest, burning each nerve encountered. An intense agony spread through her, her mouth opening in a silent scream.

This was the moment that would break her.

Lucius bore down on them, murder gleaming in his eyes and welling on his tongue, and for the first time in her life, Hermione acted without forethought. 

Rage and hatred blossomed, ugly in her chest, and the spell spilled from her lips, the bright emerald light flowing from her wand as the words bellowed from her throat. “ _Avada Kedavra!”_

But Harry had thrown himself at Lucius, arms outstretched, his mouth opened in a shout. Behind Lucius, both Draco and Ron jumped back, eyes wild and unbelieving at the sudden movement.

The curse— _her curse_ —crashed into his back, sending him sprawling and broken to the ground.

The sound in the room vanished, an emptiness replacing her panic.

Harry Potter lay dead at her feet, by her hand, his eyes unseeing. 

Distantly, sound came back to Hermione as she realized a harsh keening was echoing through the room, the sounds of battle slowly dying as the dust settled. Death Eaters and her former classmates alike realized the significance of the scene before them.

Slowly, bellowing laughter filled the room, the harsh sound of clapping drawing her gaze to the elder Malfoy. He sneered down at her, his expression triumphant. “Harry Potter is dead! At the hands of Hermione Granger, no less.”

With a wrench of his hand, he exposed his forearm, the inky black of his Dark Mark stark against his pale skin. “The Dark Lord will thank you.” And he pressed his wand into the mark, sending the snake roiling on his skin.

Try as she might, Hermione couldn’t force her legs to gather beneath her. A dry sob escaped from her, but no tears filled her eyes. Her gaze was fixed, disbelieving and shocked, at the unseeing emerald gaze of her best friend before her.

When she finally tore her eyes from him, she looked up at Lucius, only to have her attention stolen by Ron. He stood just behind Lucius, wand held limply at his side, as his expression fluctuated between shock, despair, and apathy. With a visible shake, his mask slid back into place, and he glanced around the room at the renewed, half-hearted fighting, with disgust. 

With renewed vigor and nothing left to lose, Hermione launched herself into motion.

Jinx after jinx exploded from the tip of her wand, driving Lucius backward at their ferocity. Snarls left her lips, but she didn’t acknowledge them as she forced the onlookers backward, her body coming to a defensive crouch over Harry’s. 

She would die here before she let them take him away from her.

Distantly, Hermione was aware of a pair of footsteps joining her, a warm shoulder pressed into hers, a wall between Harry, the Malfoys, and Ron. Neville, bloodied and bruised, but still willing to stand tall with her.

Like ice encountering warm water, the window to their left cracked and shattered, then exploded in a cacophony of tinkling shards as a flutter of black robes crashed through the broken pane and coalesced into the solid form of Voldemort. He stalked across the floor, and a snap of his fingers sent her and Neville’s wands flying.

As he bore down on them, a flash of light behind him drew his attention. Hermione crouched, her hands coiling around Harry’s rapidly cooling skin. She fought back nausea as another blast of light flashed through the room. 

Jet black wandfire hit her square in the chest, and Hermione fell backward, sprawling on the floor. Chaos erupted in the room again, and she tried to make sense of what she saw.

Draco Malfoy, firing a stunner at his father’s back. Ron gaping at Voldemort as the blood drained from his face. Neville leaning over her, desperately checking to make sure she was okay.

A hawthorn wand sailing through the air and landing in the trickle of blood that ran from the corner of Harry’s mouth. The stench of it blanketed the air around her as she reached out and clutched the wand in her hand. Neville Apparated them away, leaving Harry behind on the unforgiving floor.

* * *

 

Blood. So much blood.

It covered her hands in a thick red coat, a velvet sheen in the moonlight. The smell coiled in her nose, burying itself so deep into her subconscious that she thought she might smell the coppery undertones of it for the rest of her life. It splattered the ill-fitting jeans she wore, a poorly-distributed dye job of morbidity. 

Shouts echoed outside the safe house. Somewhere in the midst of everything was a group of men led by the boy she had once loved, The boy she’d pined after and considered a friend above all else. His impassivity in the face of all the destruction destroyed any of those notions. She ignored the sharp pang of her heart. 

Harry’s blank eyes and slack mouth stained her eyelids, and she could see the moment it happened recurring every time she closed her eyes. She was aware that Neville crouched before her, but she couldn’t bear to focus on him through the pain in her chest.

It was done. Ruined. Because of her. Because of one foolish moment when she acted instead of thinking. 

Cold fury rose within her, and an inhuman scream tore from her lungs.

* * *

 

**Present**

Hermione awoke, staring into the canopy of the bed as sunlight danced through the room, dappled shadows over the pristine walls. Her body ached. The extended rest and the pillow-top mattress were too kind on her ravaged mind and body. She’d done nothing but sleep and pace since she’d arrived at the manor.

The vestiges of the dream—the _memory_ —faded away, and Hermione marveled at the quiescence that swept through her, so different from the consuming grief that she felt when caged in the cellar of the old manor home. 

Dark tendrils of magic swirled and undulated around her, her hair a riotous mass of curls crackling in the magic. She lifted her hand before her, idly watching the tendrils weave around her fingers, satisfaction curling deep in her bones.

With an idle flick of her wrist, the tendrils shot outward, incinerating the curtain around her bed. 

A grim smile settled on her face as she called for Elly and the little elf served her tea.

The tendrils of shredded curtain were still floating around her, like blood in water, when Voldemort summoned her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Ducks from readers throwing things* A flashback to begin part two... and the answer to one of the pressing questions you've all had for a while now. What'd you think?
> 
> Alpha love to msmerlin13 and LadyKenz347. Crazy lots of alpha love to tofadeawayagain - she's an absolute rock star, and I appreciate her time so much! Thanks for always making my words pretty and helping me think outside my linguistic box.


	12. Upright Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Alpha love to MsMerlin13 and LadyKenz347 - beta love to tofadeawayagain. Going forward, we'll get lots more Draco, which I hope everyone is excited for. Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 12 - _Upright Hanged Man_**

Hermione put off the summons for as long as she could, but she was a marionette on a string, the magic’s tendrils weaving around her mind and forcing movements in jerky motions that she couldn’t resist.

Her mind flitted from thought to thought, analysing the space around her, to fight it. The bedroom boasted great swaths of cream carpet, plush and soft beneath her feet, and she struggled to reconcile the sudden change from the hard ground she’d been sleeping on since Harry’s death, from the dirt floors of shacks and safe houses to the concrete floor of the cellar. It’d taken days before her body had been able to lay comfortably on the overstuffed mattress that adorned the great canopied bed in her room, choosing instead to sleep on the tiled floor of the opulent bathroom.

The bathroom itself... Merlin, she could imagine how she might have gushed over it once before. Creamy white marble covered every flat surface, flecks and deep swirls of charcoal curving through the countertops. Sleek silver faucets lined the countertop, more faucets than she would ever likely know what to do with. Much like the opulent kitchen she’d been lead through, Hermione gazed at all of it in a muted sense of disbelief. 

Whatever wonder she may have felt about her quarters were tarnished by the harsh reality of the house. It, much like her body, was a testament to the way Voldemort ran his regime. 

Broken things hidden within pretty exteriors.

Gone were the ugly, metal bars she’d been forced behind upon her arrival. No longer was she relegated to live in the dark cellar like some ugly monster kept hidden away from the rest of the world.  But even now, living inside the macabre dollhouse, she still had her cage. There were still bars on the windows – they were a beautiful white wrought iron with swirling embellishments. The dark cellar had transformed into a room fit for royalty. Still, she was a prisoner. This time, her the shackles were not on her wrists, but in her mind. Something for those on the outside to toy with. 

Now she was a pretty, broken thing, on display for others to see. 

Though Hermione’s chamber was hidden away in the recesses of Malfoy Manor, she would be a fool to think that she would have privacy. No, somewhere in the room, something watched. Hermione couldn’t explain her surety, but she often felt the oily crawl of eyes on her skin. She knew that something lurked in the shadowed corners of her prison. Watching. Always watching.

In the weeks following her appearance in Voldemort’s court, she’d expected something to happen. Anything, really. A call to war, more theatrics for his followers, anything to pass the monotonous days. But day after day passed unceremoniously. She’d paced from window to window, glaring out their floor-to-ceiling lengths at the grounds below. She studied the threads of her bedding, the delicate curve to the sconces, and explored the various taps in her bath. Though she hid behind the sheer ivory curtains, Hermione studied the Vehme. 

Their patrols were like clockwork. Each morning, Hermione woke and gazed out her window. In the weeks she’d been in the Manor, she’d only managed to work out a slight deviation in their patrols; whenever Theo’s patrol was replaced by Ron’s cadre, the gates were unguarded for a two minute span while the group trudged to their posts. 

It was a weakness in their regiment she filed away for later – only Ron’s hubris would allow for such a gaping flaw in their defenses.

After growing restless of her pacing, she decided to try the one door in her chambers that she hadn’t yet dared to touch. The giant oak one, engraved with a great dragon, coiling in on itself before exhaling flames that etched themselves into the wood grain before fading away. Though the shrieking of its hinges surprised her—as it would anyone trapped within a gilded hutch—what lay behind the dragon-inlaid door did not.

Draco Malfoy’s chambers.

She’d known that she would be placed in a room near his—Lucius Malfoy had said as much. What she hadn’t realized was that she would not be placed within the same chamber where she had been bathed before Voldemort’s party. Before she’d given up. Instead, she was given the room adjacent to Malfoy’s, the only one with direct access beyond the hall entrance.

A light film of dust coated the surface of every object in the room. It had clearly been a while since Malfoy had been there, but Hermione couldn’t be sure whether it was simply a short absence or a prolonged one. The manor had self-cleaning charms within each room, and she knew that Tipsy often cleaned with a myriad of other elves, but Malfoy’s room held such a distinct lack of humanity that some instinctual part of her knew that it had been months since he’d set foot in the chamber.

Hermione had taken it upon herself to circumvent the room. 

Malfoy wasn’t much for decoration—at least, this room did not boast any of the tell-tale signs of a post-teenaged man residing in it. There were no posters on the walls, no trinkets from his Hogwarts days, nothing to insinuate that he was anything beyond a temporary border.

The only indication that someone lived there at all was a singular, gilded silver framed photograph on the bedside table. A snake was crafted into the metal, magically charmed to slither and coil around the photograph set within. In the photo, Malfoy bounded into his mother’s arms, a rare smile of joy lighting up his face as she swung him around the foreground. In the background, Lucius looked on, a grim smile turning his lips slightly upward. 

The photo was old, likely from first or second year, when Malfoy still slicked his hair back with that gods-awful hair gel he had been so fond of. Upon lifting the photo for further inspection, she paused, eyes locked on Narcissa’s face.

The woman was smiling, joy clearly written into her features, her son’s grin much like her own. However, Hermione recognized a flash in her eyes, barely there, that sent her mind wondering.

Grief. In such a happy moment, Narcissa Malfoy was grieving. 

Hermione set the photograph down, her mind working to connect the dots in a plot of which she had only a few clues.

The grief in Narcissa’s eyes was akin to the emotion she’d seen in the woman’s eyes when she had toasted Hermione at Voldemort’s revel. It was a different sort of grief, yes, but they were nonetheless related. 

What did Narcissa know? 

The crack of Apparition in her chambers had startled Hermione back into her own room, leaving a trail of footprints through the dust as the only evidence that she’d occupied the space. She hadn’t been back since.

But now, Voldemort waited for her, and Hermione couldn’t resist the magic’s pull any longer. She crossed the room toward the doorway. 

The door to Hermione’s bedroom cracked open silently, beckoning her outward, and she left the maelstrom of blackened curtain tendrils in her wake. 

Hermione strolled into the hallway following the summons, the door opening for the first time under her touch. She hadn’t known where to go, so she assumed that one of the Malfoys would escort her. As she waited, she lounged against the wall to her bedroom and contemplated the art lining the walls of the overdone corridor.

Her eyes caught on several familiar paintings. She focused on one in particular, its antique brushed wood frame likely more expensive than anything she'd ever owned. When she narrowed her glare at it, her suspicions were confirmed. A Monet. And an original, if she wasn’t mistaken.

She’d never understood why pure-bloods fancied themselves better than everyone else. Much of the art decorating the Malfoy home was Muggle in origin, the classical paintings familiar from the many trips she’d taken to the Louvre with her parents. 

“It’s been in the family for generations.” A delicate feminine voice danced down the corridor, nearly too quiet for Hermione to hear had she not been on high alert. 

Though her body tensed, Hermione refused to give away her surprise. “Monet was a Muggle,” she stated flatly, staring down the lady of the manor, whose head was tilted to the side and slightly forward with apprehension. Narcissa stood just beyond the threshold of the corridor, shadows dancing over her face. Narcissa was no different than Hermione remembered her. The woman still wore her hair neatly coiffed and styled, her robes tailored to fit her like a glove. When the witch stepped forward, light from the wall of windows danced over the fabric, sending colours spiraling throughout the deep green material in starbursts. 

Hermione followed Narcissa’s soft-footed advance warily, watching the woman’s tightly clasped hands for any sign of attack. After a moment, Narcissa inclined her head. “He was, indeed, a Muggle.”

“I thought that all pure-bloods abhorred Muggles.” It wasn’t a question. Hermione stared sidelong at Narcissa, noting the way the other woman’s gaze tightened, so minute that Hermione thought she might have missed it. 

Again, Narcissa considered her words, gaze flitting to the corners of the corridor cautiously. When she spoke again, her voice was low, but her gaze locked onto Hermione’s. “It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when it wasn’t quite so bad.” Narcissa’s crystalline blue eyes were piercing. “Some of us try to remember, in whatever little ways we can.”

Hermione looked away, an unfamiliar crawling sensation working its way up her back and lodging in her spine. 

The Black family was notorious for their hatred of Muggles and Muggle-borns—they were, perhaps, even more vehement in their disgust than the Malfoys. There was a reason the Black family motto was  _ Toujours Pur _ . Hermione’s blood was decidedly not purely magical, so why would Narcissa feel anything other than disgust for the Mudblood dwelling in her house?

Yet somehow, and for some unknown reason, Narcissa’s pitying frown had been directed at her. It was the same flash of grief she’d seen elicited in that photograph in Draco’s unused room.

“The Dark Lord will see you now.” Narcissa still peered at her, but Hermione swept past her, resolve settling along her back and shoulders in a rigid line that McGonagall would have found daunting, intent on escaping the strange woman whose house she was captive in. 

When she reached the doorway, she stared into the vast space of yet another corridor. 

She didn’t know where to go.

A feather-light touch on her shoulder sent her spinning, crouching into a battle stance and reaching for a wand that wasn’t there. When her gaze snapped upward, she was met with Narcissa’s cool gaze once more.

“If you’ll follow me this way.” Narcissa didn’t wait for a response, instead strutting away with her skirts billowing around her. 

With each step as she trailed after Narcissa, Hermione tried to make sense of the sensations that filled her. It wasn't an emotion, was it? It was a lack thereof. 

There should be fear, turmoil, despair... but she felt nothing. Come to think of it, there had been nothing since Malfoy had called the darkness forth in her soul. The same darkness that she was now sure he had set upon her in the first place.

Narcissa led her down another hallway, shorter this time, that ended at the doorway to the formal dining room. The doors were closed, and a Vehme sentinel stood on either side of the doorway: Ron on one side, Theodore Nott on the other.

Ron aimed a leer at them. “The Dark Lord is… busy at the moment.” An agonised scream curdled in the air beyond the doorway. “Wait here.” 

Narcissa bowed her head, moving backwards gracefully to stand alongside Hermione as they waited.

A still,  _ living  _ silence followed the scream, the kind of quiet that transcended human capability for articulation, and Hermione again felt surveilled. She couldn’t pinpoint where the gaze came from, but something within told Hermione that it was far more sinister than that of the Vehme standing before her.

After a few moments that felt more like years, the double doors swung soundlessly inward, and Hermione stepped forward, head held high and determination in the single step she managed before a hand on her wrist stopped her progress.

Narcissa stared back at her, perfect robes wrapping elegantly around her lithe frame, graceful strength in the defiant, proud tilt of her head. Gone was the nervous woman from moments before, and in her place stood a strong-willed, fierce force of nature that would protect her own at any cost. For the first time, Hermione saw beyond Narcissa’s station as the lady of the manor, the perfect pure-blood wife. Narcissa was a mother, and anyone that crossed her would be struck down.

“Remember your place.” Narcissa uttered, her voice cold and sharp, a stark contrast from the tone she’d used just moments before. Narcissa strode into the room, Hermione on her heels.

The walk to Voldemort seemed far longer than it actually was. Each clap of their footsteps echoed off the harsh decor. With a critical eye, he watched them cross the cavernous space. A trio of house-elves knelt at his feet, scrubbing a large stain on the tiled floor. They worked frantically, bloodied water splashing their filthy tea towels and forearms. When the two witches stopped before them, he rose from the dais, descending the steps with a hiss of his robes. 

Two of the little elves were cognizant enough to quickly scuttle out of the way, to let the Dark Lord pass over their spots before resuming their cleaning. The third, however, was so focused on his task that he didn’t hear the sweeping of the man’s robes. Voldemort paused, leveling a villainous glare at the distracted elf, his lip curling.  When the elf still didn’t move, Voldemort lifted his heel and struck the elf in the temple, sending him careening backwards.

Air rushed out of the elf’s lungs as it slid across the tiled floor, and beside her, Narcissa flinched and the hatred within Hermione simmered hotter. 

Voldemort continued forward, paying no heed to the elves who resumed their place on the floor, tears leaking from their eyes as they tried not to rush to their fallen friend. Wheezing breaths issued from his throat, and Hermione’s gaze locked onto the bruise already blossoming on the elf’s thin skin. A trail of bloody water marked Voldemort’s path, the tails of his robe soaked clean through.

When he stopped before them, Narcissa swept into a low curtsey, her eyes never leaving the floor. Hermione, however, stood straight and stared into the empty air between them.

“Narcissa.” The Dark Lord spoke in a low rumble, the ‘s’ of her name dragging out in an exaggerated hiss. It was a quality to his speech that Hermione had missed before, but the stillness in the room lent itself to observation, and her mind strove to catalogue as many details as she could. The red slits of his eyes. The drawn out ‘s.’ The slight tremour that ran through Narcissa’s rigid shoulders when he swept her up out of the curtsey and placed a lingering kiss on her hand. Four doors through which they might be attacked. The hooded Vehme who stood alongside Voldemort’s chair, wands ready at their side. It all fell into the neat boxes her mind had erected.

Voldemort turned his gaze to Hermione, studying her up and down. With a manic laugh, he strode between them, the distance so slim that her arm pressed into his body when he slipped by. He traversed his path slowly, a cold, paper-thin hand running along her shoulders as he looked his fill.

This time, there was a hollow where her fear was normally kept. She felt no disgust as he threaded his fingers through her meticulously groomed hair – Tipsy’s fine handiwork. But when he resumed his place before her and a cruel smile cracked his face, the rage that simmered in her core was stoked to life once more.

“Miss Granger, how nice to see you bathed.” He tittered a mocking laugh. “Quite an improvement from last we saw you. My previous statement stands: what my men would do to get their hands on Dumbledore’s Golden Girl.” 

Despite herself, Hermione’s hand coiled into a fist at her side. The depths of the bleakness within her sprung to life, and magic threatened to spring to life along her forearms. With everything she had, she reeled it back, her teeth gritting painfully.

He canted his head to the side, observing her. “Such a pity to deny them their fun. Alas, you’ll prove useful in other ways.” He waved his wand, and a tapestry behind him billowed to the side, revealing a hidden passageway. Within it, a lamp bobbed.

Moments later, a house-elf clad in a ratty old blanket emerged, leading Draco Malfoy from its depths. 

“Malfoy, my dear boy.” Voldemort opened his arms, and the young wizard stiffly crossed the room, awkwardly embracing the megalomaniac before her. 

Beside her, Narcissa twitched imperceptibly, and Hermione watched with growing interest as the woman’s hand twisted into a fist before slowly uncoiling again.

Interesting.

Voldemort turned to them again, his arm slung around Malfoy’s shoulder in a poor imitation of comradery as he spoke. “The Order has struck again, this time in Canterbury. They’ve arsoned the manor homes of several of my men, young Blaise Zabini’s included.”

Hermione squinted at the man, not following him. She cleared her throat, speaking for the first time since she had entered the room. “And what would you have me do about it?”

Malfoy stared at her, his lips parting and eyes narrowing at the insolence in her tone. Hermione didn’t care. She’d pledged herself to Voldemort, but she didn’t respect him and she’d be damned if she allowed him to think she did. 

Again, Voldemort laughed. “Such fire, this one.” He turned over his shoulder, stalking once more to the raised platform and seating himself on the cushion adorning it. “You agreed to help, Mudblood. Now, make yourself useful.”

Hermione tensed, waiting for him to direct him, to give her some terrible mission that ended in bloodshed or death.

Voldemort stared expectantly at her, his brow furrowing when she refused to speak. A low growl issued from his throat, and he flexed his wrist, nonverbal magic forcing her into a deep bow before him and loosening her tongue against her bidding. “And what would you have me do, master?” 

_ Master. _ The word felt filthy on her tongue, and she could feel his sick glee echo down his  _ Imperius _ before he spoke. “You’ll train with the Vehme, learn their ways, fight alongside them.” He forced her deeper into the bow, her back screaming in agonising protest as her nose nearly brushed the floor. “You volunteered to break the Order; now be a good little Mudblood and prove yourself useful.” It was spoken on a snarl, and Hermione nearly cried out in relief when his loss of control snapped his hold on her. When she stood upright, he glared at her with red, narrowed eyes. “I trust Draco can direct you. Isn’t that right, dear boy?”

Hermione stared back at him with an indifferent gaze, waiting for horror, shock,  _ anything  _ to register at his request. Instead, the rage within her only seemed to grow stronger, deeper, an all-consuming anger that she thought might burn her up from within.

When she failed to respond, Voldemort dismissed them with a curl of his lip. “You’ll begin in the morning.”

With a flick of his wrist, the dining room doors again opened, and Voldemort’s guards escorted them out. None of them spoke as they left Voldemort’s wing of the house.

Hermione glanced at the pair sidelong from the corner of her eyes. It seemed too easy, all of it. Her tortured submission, being allowed to live in exchange for abandoning the Order. It was far too seamless to be believable.

But something about the way Narcissa carried herself after a reprimand from the Dark Lord called to Hermione, awakening that distant part of her that had been stolen from her by Narcissa’s son. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, the depths of sorrow that so fleetingly appeared upon her face, her clenched fists… they all sparked questions. Hermione wanted the answers.

When Draco sidled up alongside Narcissa outside of the dining hall and offered her his forearm, the lady of the manor took no pause and slipped her arm through her son’s. A false smile had graced her lips for just a moment before they took off down the hallway, and Hermione had sped to catch up. Curious that the soft-spoken woman would take such easy acceptance of the blood-stained hand, even from her own son. 

And yet here she was. Walking alongside two of the people she had once considered some of her worst enemies. That she  _ still  _ considered some of her worst enemies, despite the strange draw she felt toward the elder witch striding beside her. 

Their heads were inclined toward one another, and intuition told Hermione that they were discussing something, the way only a mother and son so close that they could communicate outside of spoken words did. A grim frown etched itself into Draco’s mouth, the sharp lines of his cheeks once more calling out the prominent hollows under his eyes. 

Outside Hermione’s room, mother and son broke away from one another. With a slight incline of Narcissa’s head, Draco stepped forward, clearing his throat.

“You’re to be ready at a quarter of six in the morning. Tipsy will bring you clothes to wear and help you prepare yourself. You’re not to be late.” The command was clear enough for the magic in her to take hold. Draco stared down his nose at Hermione, and she fought the biting response that was on the tip of her tongue.

Exhaustion was clear in his features, and her gaze followed the sharp line of a knife cut along his cheek, an addition that had been hidden from her in the shadowed dining room.

Silence stretched between them before Hermione realised that she was expected to answer. With a snort of derision, she responded. “I have no choice; I’ll be ready.” 

He gave a curt nod and stepped back, turning toward his mother. Hermione placed her hand on her door’s knob and stared at the grain, fighting against the magic that stayed her tongue and compelled her compliance. After a beat, she expelled a final retort. “Shall I meet you in your bedroom, seeing as it’s the only room in this cage that I can enter without someone else present to act as my leash?”

She didn’t wait for a response.


	13. Ace of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! As always, thank you to my lovely alphas, LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13, and stellar beta, tofadeawayagain, for their time and effort to help me with this fic!

**Chapter 13 - _Ace of Swords_**

The harsh  _ snick  _ of the curtain rings heralded Merlin-be-damned sunshine glaring down on Hermione, waking her from sleep. Instead of Elly staring down at her, a familiar head of luminous blond curls greeted her, backlit by sunlight.

A crease settled between her brows, and Hermione sat up, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. After a few blinks to clear the sleep from her eyes, she spoke, disbelief colouring her tone. “ _ Lavender _ ?” 

The girl stepped forward, blocking the light, and Hermione confirmed her suspicions. It was Lavender Brown, dressed in simple beige robes, her voluminous curls pulled back into a simple plait. Some of them had escaped and arranged themselves into a halo around her head. The girl was without makeup, and Hermione studied her face.

Lavender looked so much younger than she remembered. A distant memory floated to the surface – Lavender wrapped around Ron in a sensual embrace – and the anger that was Hermione’s constant companion reared up.

“Hello, Hermione.” Lavender’s voice was quiet, softer than she had ever heard it at Hogwarts. Despite how youthful she appeared, deep lines had etched themselves into her forehead. Hermione eyed the witch’s hands, tightly grasped in front of her waist. They trembled.

“Since you’re to stay at the manor, Lady Malfoy requested that you be given a proper servant. You’re an honoured guest here.” Lavender didn’t meet her gaze as she spoke; instead, she crossed the room to the other window and wrenched the blinds open.

The irony in Lavender’s voice didn’t escape Hermione, and she looked at the other girl sharply. Between them, Hermione could see dust particles swirling in the air, and the silence between them stretched. They’d never been friends; even before Ron, Hermione hadn’t been able to stand the girl’s shrill voice and false laughter.

But now… the dead look in the witch’s eyes called to the part of Hermione that was hidden away behind the brick wall she’d erected deep within herself. Hermione shoved the memories that threatened back down before she spoke to the other witch. “You look well.” It was a probing statement, and Hermione half expected the witch to ignore her.

Instead, Lavender crossed the room once more, stopping at the foot of Hermione’s oversized bed and stared accusingly down her nose at her. Hermione wasn’t sure what the other woman was looking for—she couldn’t bring herself to care—but she stared back, daring her to say something.

Hermione didn’t want to hurt her, but she refused to tolerate the Lavender’s condescension. After a moment, Lavender inclined her head, apparently having found whatever answer she was looking for in Hermione’s gaze. “We all do what we have to. To survive.” 

The girl walked away, leaving Hermione to stare after her as she disappeared into the washroom. A moment later, Hermione heard the tell-tale tinkling of running bath water, and Lavender returned. When she stopped before Hermione’s bed again, Hermione stared at her, the furrow between her brow returning as the girl’s comment threatened to jar more unwanted memories forward. After an awkward pause, Lavender spoke. “When you’re ready, I can—”

Hermione bristled. “No.”

Lavender froze, staring at Hermione. “I have orders - I can’t—”

Venom laced Hermione’s words when she spoke. “I don’t care on whose orders you act, you will not be bathing me.” Lavender opened her mouth to speak, but Hermione interrupted her again, exasperation rising within her at the damned circumstances, at Voldemort, at  _ every damned thing  _ that had led her to telling an old schoolmate that she didn’t need help bloody washing herself.

“Let me make one thing clear: I have very limited freedom here, and I don’t intend to give it up to someone because they were commanded to help me wash my arse. You’ve never liked me, Lavender, and let me reassure you that the sentiment is mutual. Don’t pretend to tolerate me because you’ve received orders. When you’re in this room, consider yourself freed of obligations.” Hermione sighed, quelling the urge to yell at her. “We’ll both be far better off.”

Lavender stared down at her, a faraway gleam in her eyes, listening to Hermione chastise her. When she looked up, Lavender sighed. “When you’re done, at least let me plait your hair. You always were atrocious at it.” The girl offered her a half smile, and Hermione stared at her for a moment before inclining her head slightly.

With that, Hermione swept off the bed, the blankets left in a heap and the pillows in disarray.

In her first days, she’d been meticulous in keeping the space clean, the manic energy of the magic roiling beneath her skin until she had to do  _ something  _ to get it out. So she cleaned. And when she was done cleaning, she blasted things apart until they were miniscule shreds and set back to cleaning again.

Everything was always righted the next morning.

As Hermione closed the door between herself and Lavender, she contemplated the day. She didn’t know what time it was—early, if Lavender was waking her—but the Malfoys had somehow charmed the room she was in to reflect whatever time of day they deemed fit. Since Hermione was to meet Malfoy to begin her training that morning, it couldn’t have been late enough in the day for as much sunlight to stream into the room as it had.

With a sigh, she disrobed and slipped into the tub, begrudgingly appreciating Lavender for her choice in bath soaps. A light rose scent wafted from the water, and it was just warm enough to shake the sleep from her limbs. As Hermione slid into the water to her ears, she recalled the witch’s appearance.

Something had happened to Lavender, though what it had been, Hermione wasn’t sure. The girl had admitted it herself: whatever it took to survive.

What had that looked like for Lavender?

Hermione was intimately familiar with what it took for her, though she wasn’t sure if she could call it surviving. She had longed for death, had hoped for it, and yet here she was, bathing in an opulent bathtub in a manor ruled by the man who had destroyed the wizarding world, and preparing to train as one of his soldiers.

The thought didn’t disgust her as much as she thought it would. More than anything, she found herself eager to explore the magic that roiled within her, the newfound clarity that she’d lacked before she’d given herself over to it.

Hermione slid further into the clawfoot tub, wetting her hair and working shampoo into it. The magic was unlike any other that she’d experienced, and she wanted to discover its depths. It seemed that no matter how she expended it, there was a new depth to explore, a yearning deep within her to give it  _ more _ , to explore it further. 

As she rinsed her hair, she tested it, calling it up and wrapping it around her body. The water chilled rapidly around her, a small film of ice covering its surface, and Hermione smirked.

Every day, something new.

Finally, Hermione stood, her body breaking the icy surface. Cold rivulets of water ran down her body as she toweled off. After a quick glance in the mirror, she exited the washroom, intending to flop back onto her bed before meeting Malfoy.

Instead, she stopped in her tracks.

_ What in Merlin’s name _ —

The bed was made. The articles of clothing she’d shed haphazardly were now neatly stacked in a laundry basket in the corner of the room. Tissues she’d used and discarded on the floor zoomed over her shoulder and into the wastebasket in the bathroom.

At the centre of it all, Lavender stood, arms aloft and directing Hermione’s belongings with gentle waves. With a sweep of her hand, the throw blanket Hermione spent the evenings wrapped in neatly folded itself, and Lavender turned to direct it into the walk-in closet, but she froze when she saw Hermione watching her.

The blood drained from Lavender’s face, and her arms dropped to her side. When Hermione didn’t say anything, Lavender spoke rapidly, fear colouring her eyes. “I was just— I just wanted to help…”

Hermione stared at her, torn between anger and indifference. Instead of responding, she turned on her heels, entering the closet and dressed instead.

She chose a light cloak, something she’d be able to move in freely. Though her clothing had been provided by the Malfoys, she lacked choices, and she never would have been afforded the clothes she’d grown accustomed to wearing on the run. She missed her jeans and jumpers, the comfort they afforded in their movement, but she couldn’t dismiss the satisfaction of lounging in the expensive fabrics the Malfoys had given her.

She slipped an undershirt over her head, growling in frustration when her wet curls were caught beneath it and dampened the fabric. With a careless wave of her hand, the spot evaporated, and Hermione quickly finished dressing.

Nearly as quickly as she had entered, Hermione swept from the closet, her bare feet sliding through the thick carpet as she crossed the bedroom to the small vanity that sat beside her bed. She felt Lavender’s wary eyes on her, watching from the same spot she’d been in when Hermione had exited the washroom. When she finally reached the chair and plopped into it, she glanced up, meeting Lavender’s gaze in the mirror.

After several beats of silence, Hermione spoke. “You said you’d plait my hair.”

An olive branch.

A slight smile lifted Lavender’s lips, and she walked to Hermione, the shaking in her hands slightly less pronounced.

Slowly, Lavender wound the strands of Hermione’s hair into a tight plait, choosing to French braid it to keep the strands from falling out too quickly. She spoke as she worked, an idle chatter that Hermione paid little attention to. After a few moments though, the girl’s hands stilled and Hermione looked up from the spot she’d fixed her gaze on.

Lavender’s eyes were filled with tears, and her throat worked up and down as she swallowed. At Hermione’s raised brows, the girl cleared her throat. “What did they do to you, Hermione?”

A surprised laugh escaped her. What  _ hadn’t  _ they done to her?

Without considering the consequences, Hermione answered Lavender. “They broke me.” She didn’t flinch as she spoke the harsh truth, making note of the flat apathy in her eyes as she stared at her reflection.

There was no sorrow in the words, and Hermione simply stared between their reflections in the mirror, providing no further explanation to the hand fate had dealt her. Hermione didn’t pity herself, didn’t make excuses for the choices she’d made. 

The blessing of the curse—beyond  _ finally _ having magic again—was that she now saw everything objectively. It was so much clearer than before, unmarred by the rapid-fire emotions she’d experienced on the run and in her cage. Now, she understood why they had done what they had to her.

They needed to break her to get her to accept this new magic. So much of her self was gone, including the emotions that governed her logic. Without emotions, she could think; she could understand what led her here.

The torture had been real. Hermione thought their strategy had been rather well thought out. They could have kept her down there forever, starving her and tormenting her with words that she could eventually deconstruct and deflect, but tearing into the very fibres of her mind and fraying her apart whilst they destroyed her body was quite masterfully done. Coupled with the fact that they healed her after each session, leaving her to question her sanity and beg for death, it was a strategy that, though demented, she admired.

It was effective. Gruesome, but effective.

After a few moments, a tentative hand settled on Hermione’s shoulder, and she jumped as Lavender’s earnest gaze met hers in the mirror. Hermione couldn’t break the gaze as Lavender summoned a hair tie and wrapped it around the tight plait she’d woven into Hermione’s hair. 

“You’ve done what you needed to.”

It was an absolution, and one Hermione didn’t acknowledge.

Suddenly, a throat cleared, and Lavender wrenched her hand back, her fingertips shaking again. “As touching as this little… reunion is, we’ve plans to keep, Granger.” Malfoy stood just beyond Hermione’s bed, the door to his adjoining suite ajar. Hermione looked up, eyeing him coolly. “You’re late.”

She didn’t acknowledge his statement, instead standing and facing Lavender. With a slight incline of her head, she thanked the witch and finally faced Malfoy.

Anger roiled within her, and Hermione flexed her wrist lazily. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” She gestured to the tray of toast Lavender had brought with her. “I’d like to finish my breakfast.” To emphasize her point, Hermione flopped into a chair, picking up a piece of toast and draping her legs over the arm of the chair.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, and Hermione fought the self-satisfied grin that threatened on her face. “You have ten minutes.” It was a command, and she felt the tug on the link between them, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

With that, he whirled out of the room, robes swirling behind him.

Satisfaction unfurled in her gut, and Hermione didn’t miss the grin that Lavender shot at her before leaving the room.

Exactly seven minutes later, Malfoy had sent Elly to remind her that she would be expected soon.

Hermione rolled her eyes and angrily tied up the boots Elly had left for her. Somewhere in the room adjacent to hers, Malfoy was impatiently waiting to begin her training. Whatever that entailed.

She scoffed. She was far more talented with a wand than most of the people she’d gone to school with—Malfoy included. What she need  _ training  _ for was beyond her.

The little satisfaction she’d gotten at keeping him waiting had died. Hermione was restless. Magic danced beneath her skin, zipping along her nerves and driving her to fidget restlessly. The darkness of it was enticing.

Despite the sudden return of her magic, it was difficult to justify using it, stuck in this room as she was. And though she was already tired of Malfoy expecting her to jump at his every command—the curse forcing her to do so, be damned—Hermione couldn’t help but resist it.

When the clock struck ten minutes, she couldn’t fight the compulsion to stand and cross the room. Hermione cursed every single magical being she could think of as she did.

When her hand rested on the knob of the door between her and Draco’s rooms, it warmed slightly beneath her touch, and she heard the definitive click of the lock snapping open. She didn’t pause to knock before she pushed in, stopping just over the threshold.

Malfoy hadn’t told her anything more than to be in his room in ten minutes, and here she was.

He sat on his bed, dressed in athletic robes a shade lighter than navy. His back was hunched over, hands clasped between him, where he twirled a wand and stared absently at the carpet. Hermione couldn’t be sure, but she thought his brow might have been wrinkled in thought.

She studied him with curious contempt, refusing to announce her presence, and instead watching the way his shoulders pulled taut with tension. His foot tapped slightly, wound so tightly that whatever he was wrestling with fought to come out in whatever tick he allowed to escape.

_ Good _ , she thought, remembering the way he’d sent his men into the room to do Voldemort’s dirty work, always conveniently escaping whenever the worst of it started. Hermione didn’t know if it was guilt, but a vindictive satisfaction unfurled through her, coaxing her magic to the surface. She clenched her fists to keep the sudden bout of magic from exploding outward.

_ Let him drown in his guilt. Coward. _

Malfoy’s head suddenly wrenched up, alerted to her presence with her movement and the charge of magic in the air. She saw it then.

Within his eyes was a sorrow that matched his mother’s, a heavy ache that she recognised in the photo in Draco’s room. Just as quickly as she saw it, though, his mask slid back into place and he stood, straightening his shoulders and crossing the room on silent feet.

Malfoy stopped before her, and Hermione glared back, unwilling to speak first.

Suddenly, Malfoy outstretched his arm. Slowly, Hermione dropped her gaze, eyeing the wand in his hand sceptically. With a snort, she glanced back up at him, eyebrow cocked.

Malfoy grunted, thrusting his arm forward and refusing to meet her gaze. “Take it.” He gestured with the wand again. “You’ll need it.”

His voice was different, gruffer than she was used to, reminiscent of the tone he’d used when ordering his men not to hurt her the night she gave herself over to Voldemort.

“Why?” A challenge, not seeking an answer to his statement.

The tension returned to Malfoy’s shoulders, starting in his lower back and rolling up his spine until he stood rigid before her. Hermione watched the war behind his eyes, and suddenly his frustration echoed down the bond he’d forged when he’d  _ Imperiused  _ her.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, and suddenly the connection between them went silent as he realized that she was privy to the emotion. With a snarl, he thrust the wand into her chest. “Take the bloody wand, Granger. You’re to train today, and to do that you need a bloody wand. So just  _ fucking  _ take it.”

A flicker of his anger churned in the air around them, magic crackling down his fingertips. Suddenly, the magic she’d forced into dormancy roared back to life, and a cracking in the room from their combined anger started Malfoy a step backward. The wand clattered to the floor between them as he stared at her wide-eyed.

Without another word, he whirled on his heel, sweeping toward the doorway. Hermione stared down at the innocuous instrument, something like elation roaring to life in her. She’d been without a wand for months, and still she remembered the thrill of power that ran through her as she knelt to pick it up, the wood worn and smooth in her hand.

“You’re to only use this when I’m around.” His voice was cold, indifferent. He spoke at her, not to her, and he pushed the door open, exiting into the hall.

The vestiges of his magic crackled against hers, and Hermione eyed it with a smirk before leaving the room.

Perhaps Malfoy could be useful after all.

Two hours later, Hermione wanted to eat her words. 

Malfoy snarled down at her where she had been knocked onto her back. “For someone who survived so long in the war, you’re bloody rubbish at dueling, Granger.” He stalked away from her, returning to the line he’d drawn in the dirt.

Hermione fought the urge to scream back at him. He’d barely spoken two words to her the whole time, instead drawing the line on the other side of which he glared from her. As soon as she’d stepped foot onto the dueling field, he’d begun firing curse after curse at her.

Hermione was rusty. She felt it in her joints, in the hesitation she felt in pushing the magic through the wand Malfoy had thrust at her. The second-nature analysis of his movements was delayed, and Hermione paid for it in her hesitations.

Each curse that clipped her made her angrier, the rage boiling to the surface as she stood again, grip tightening on the wand.

It didn’t feel natural. The aspen wood fought against her magic, against the anger that fueled her, and it served only to enrage her further. Malfoy’s pinched face glared down at her, and she rose to her feet, joints cracking and popping. With a deep breath, she forced her mind to focus, grateful for the clarity she was afforded by Malfoy’s spell. Her hand tightened around the wand, and she sunk into a battle stance, waiting for Malfoy’s move.

He shifted, the weight moving from his right to his left foot, and Hermione recognized it: his tell. On instinct, she rolled to the left.

The spot she’d been standing in just moments before lit up in a violet light, and she shot to her feet, bolts of light ripping from the wand in her hand.

Malfoy quickly threw up a hasty shield, and still Hermione stalked forward. She didn’t speak, didn’t command any spells to erupt from the wand, didn’t so much as  _ think  _ as she let the darkness deep within her loose.

Malfoy was a conservative dueler, choosing to defend as much as he could before taking the offensive when he was attacked first. He shielded with his left hand, a nonverbal spell that he held strong as she stalked forward. In his right, he gripped his wand, firing hexes meant to disarm her, spells she easily deflected with a slash of her arm. Each time he shot a spell, his right side was left unguarded, an opening he seemed unaware that he provided.

A deadly calm settled in her soul, and it was as though the world slowed down around her. Her eyes tracked Malfoy’s every move, the slight dart of his eyes, the shifting of his feet as he watched her advance. Her magic sung. Her eyes stung in their determined gaze.

If Malfoy wanted her to fight, then he’d regret ever pushing her.

Every last bit of energy she had, she flooded into the wand in her hand, feeling the instrument grow warm in her grasp, and still she pushed forward. With a crack, Malfoy’s shield faltered, and Hermione struck.

She aimed a hurling hex at his shield, shattering what remained, and as he rose his wand to counter, she slashed her own. A jet of plum coloured light slammed into his side, and Malfoy hurtled backward through the air. He landed with a loud grunt in a puff of dirt, and Hermione leaned over him, wand shoved in his pointy face as angry pants of breath hurtled out of her mouth.

Their eyes locked, and Hermione dared him to say anything, dared him to give her just one reason to put an end to it all right then.

As the dust settled around them, her wand in Malfoy’s face, clapping sounded over the training field. A shield sprang to life between her and Draco, forcing her backward at the sheer force of the magic used to cast it. Hermione whirled, her wand slashing back at the manor house.

From within the recesses of the shadows, a figure emerged, gnarled, bony hands clapping together in a harsh staccato. Narcissa Malfoy slowly joined him, her head bowed as though she couldn’t bear to witness the scene before her.

Voldemort stared down at them, his gaze feral in the early morning light. Even from where she stood, she could see the red-tinted gaze, the snake-like pupils, calculating her every move. Then, in a shove so swift that Hermione nearly questioned if she had imagined it, Voldemort shoved Narcissa over the balcony railing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note that there may not be an update next week - I know, after a cliffie too! I'm sorry! I have to work an expo and will be out quite late. I don't know if I'll have internet access, but I'll do my best! Thanks for reading!


	14. Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi friends! I missed you all, and I hope you're excited for this next chapter and that the cliffie wasn't too horrible to wait through. The good news is that while I was unable to update, I did manage to get two more chapters written, and I'm nearing a major plot point! You'll have to wait a few chapters for it, but I'm super excited as things begin to fall into place. On to the chapter!

**Chapter 14 -** **_Judgement_ **

Narcissa’s descent happened in slow motion.

One moment, she was standing demurely next to Voldemort, her hands clasped before her, and the next the woman was hurtling over the balcony and toward the ground.

Hermione didn’t have to know the woman to recognize the fear in her eyes, even from a distance. What surprised her, though, was the lack of surprise and the utter acceptance in her expression. If Hermione had to guess, the woman looked as though she was at some semblance of peace with the thought of crashing into the ground below.

Behind her, Malfoy gasped out a strangled “no” and shot to his feet, scrambling for purchase on the rocks. His leg shot out and swept hers from beneath her, but not before Hermione raised a wand and shot a cushioning spell toward the ground beneath the balcony.

And just like that, it was done. 

Malfoy rushed past her, harsh breath gusting out of his mouth in his haste to get to his mother. Rising up on her elbows, Hermione watched as he skidded to a stop alongside the woman, quickly checking her over to ensure she was okay.

Hermione couldn’t make out the words that he spoke softly to Narcissa, but his concern was evident in the way he gingerly held her hand and helped her to her feet. Voldemort stood above on the balcony, sharp eyes watching the interaction closely. Hermione didn’t miss the way he inclined his head at her, a secret snaking across his face as he receded into the shadows once more.

Foreboding wound up her spine, her magic leaching from the wand that rested in her hand. Deep within her, something whispered that she had somehow won his approval in some twisted test of loyalty. 

Malfoy swept Narcissa away, his expression pinched and lips set in a grim line. With one glance back, Narcissa met her gaze. Understanding shone in her eyes, a grim reminder that Narcissa knew where she stood in the grand scheme of things.

Once more, Hermione wondered what the other woman hid, what knowledge she had that seemed so pivotal to Hermione’s existence in this manor. The one person who had shown her a semblance of kindness.

The one person who didn’t go out of their way to make her life a living nightmare.

Before disappearing into the Manor, Narcissa subtly tilted her head upward toward the shadows that Voldemort had cast her from, and Hermione’s heart rate sped, the beat thumping in the vein at her neck, just beneath the skin. She wasn’t sure how she knew—Hermione couldn’t have put a name to it if she tried—but something told her that Narcissa understood far more than she let on.

A slight pressure against the walls Hermione had erected in her mind send her heart into suspicious overdrive, but the prodding felt different, desperate almost, compared to the prodding she’d grown used to from Malfoy’s men. With cautious control, Hermione lowered the walls infinitesimally. 

_Meet me —wait for my word. _

She didn’t know when, but Hermione would meet Narcissa. And then, maybe she’d finally get the answers she so desperately needed. 

Malfoy slipped into her room late that evening, the door between their adjoined quarters snapping open in the silence of the room.

Hermione was sitting upright in her bed, levitating softly glowing orbs of magic around her in the dim candlelight. The Malfoys hadn’t afforded her the luxury of books—something about the potential of stumbling across something she shouldn’t, according to Lavender—and so she made do with what she could.

Malfoy’s drawn face quickly gained her attention, and Hermione banished the magic with a wave of her hand.

Silence passed between them, but Hermione refused to speak. Clearly, he’d chosen to enter the room for a reason; let him squirm until he broke the silence.

Malfoy in the evening was different than the Malfoy she’d grown accustomed to during the day. Tonight, he wore loose slacks and a white Oxford, unbuttoned at the throat. He was without shoes, a fact which surprised her, and his sock-clad feet sunk into the plush carpet. His hair was mussed, and circles were etched deep beneath his eyes. 

Malfoy looked uncertain and _human_ without his Vehme robes, without the hard shield he wore throughout the day.

He looked _tired._

Hermione refused to feel sympathy and studied her nail beds while he stood near the end of her bed.

Finally, the standoff ended, and Malfoy cleared his throat, refusing to look at her. “She’s okay.”

“Pardon?” It’s not what she had been expecting him to say, anticipating the harsh scolding that was his usual refrain, and the statement startled a politeness out of her that Hermione’s mother had ingrained in her as a small child.

She buried the thought without acknowledging it further.

Malfoy cleared his throat, finally looking at her. “My mother— she’s fine. She sends me with her gratitude.” His words were stilted, a little rough with the emotion he tried to bury beneath them, and Hermione simply nodded.

“Good.” She didn’t look up, didn’t expect the conversation to go any further.

Retreating to the doorway, Malfoy paused between theirs. He spoke again, halfway through the entrance, and he didn’t turn back to face her. “She’s requested you have access to the rest of the wing. Particularly the library at the end of the hall.” 

The comment surprised her, and Hermione’s head jerked up, peering at the back of Malfoy’s head as he disappeared through the doorway again and pulled it tightly shut behind him.

It wasn’t much, but Hermione recognized it for what it was.

Narcissa would meet her in the library. 

She flopped back against the downy pillows, sinking into the comfort that it offered. Hermione stared up at the ceiling above the bed. Despite her best efforts, , she was unable to puzzle out the woman’s intentions before Lavender entered the next morning to wake her for another training session.

Each night, she crept down the hall to the library, still unused to the door sliding open under her touch, reveling in the freedom that the night allowed her now that she was no longer confined to her gilded cage.

Narcissa had yet to meet her, and Hermione tried to quell the anger the longer she went without answers. It seemed that, though the woman had shown Hermione some measure of kindness in their limited interactions, Narcissa was reluctant to show her hand just yet.

It had been two weeks since the morning of her first training session with Malfoy, and he hadn’t spoken about the incident once since he’d entered her room in the middle of the night.

Instead, he gave her a wide berth, choosing to warily watch her and steadily increase the difficulty of her training sessions.

Training had become monotonous. Malfoy taught her something new and then commanded her not to use the same spell he’d just taught her. He’d teach her obscure hexes that would incapacitate a person, then force her to practice shields for the rest of the afternoon. The list of restrictions he had placed upon her magic was a growing lead weight around her neck, and she was sure she would be crushed beneath the weight of it all soon.

It would be a welcome reprieve to Malfoy’s utter nonsense.

Still, though, she often botched spells and curses to prolong the time spent on the back terrace, to feel the sun on her skin unfiltered through a pane of glass and the haze of magic.

She’d missed fresh air.

When he pushed her, she found that her fuse had been shortened exponentially, and she was apt to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. The curse had taken most of her emotions from her, but it had left cold ruthlessness, calculation, and fury behind. What she’d normally approach methodically, she now flew into fueled by depthless rage.

Currently, Malfoy paced before her. Her gaze followed Malfoy’s trek, determined not to roll her eyes as he paced the length of the room. He was so predictable; she’d done something to save his mum, acting purely out of instinct, and he hadn’t even thought to say thank you. 

Malfoy was a spoiled brat, so it shouldn’t have surprised her, but she still thought he might have at least mentioned it in passing.

Hermione stared at Malfoy from her chair, her legs swinging back and forth, when a thought occurred to her. He hadn’t said she couldn’t use it _on_ him when he was around.

Malfoy paced before her, muttering nonsense about what she would be expected to do today—what she would be expected to practice her killing on. Slowly, Hermione lifted the wand, twirling it around her fingertips with ease. 

With adrenaline pounding through her veins, she tightened her grip, and Hermione leveled the wand at Malfoy’s back, channeling every last bit of hatred she felt for him into the magic thrumming down her hand, imagining eviscerating him like she had the faceless wizards she had in training, and—

“Stop.” 

A command.

The magic died in Hermione’s hand, cold fury receding to settle back into her stomach. Her hand remained outstretched, but the wand remained little more than a useless stick in her hand as she warred with the command. 

Malfoy turned to look at her, a scowl dancing over his features. “Do you really find me that dense, Mudblood?” The slur had long since lost its sting, and the insult now fell on deaf ears. He crossed the room, towering over where she sat carelessly in the armchair. “Do you really think that you would be allowed even a Hufflepuff’s chance in hell to curse me? To kill me?” 

Draco leaned closer, his breath gusting over her face in angry spurts. “You’re smarter than that.”

Hermione blinked, the comment entirely unexpected, and he wheeled away from her. When he reached the doorway between their two rooms, he snarled at her. _Get dressed._

She was nearly out the door before she realised that the words he’d spoken to her were nonverbal.

Hermione stood in the courtyard, staring at the scene before her.

The Vehme stood in a circle around the spot she and Draco usually trained in, the ground scorched where many of her spells had missed and collided with the ground.

Malfoy had escorted her out, dressed in his robes instead of his usual training garb. He stood surveying the group surrounding them, eyeing each one carefully as they shifted from foot to foot. She could feel the disdain dripping off them, but none of them dared to speak in the face of their leader. Ron’s cold gaze bore into the side of her head, but she refused to acknowledge his presence.

From the back of the group, Zabini strode forward, dragging a woman with him. She was filthy, dirt covering her feet and exposed legs, and Hermione could smell the stench of her unwashed body when Zabini jerked her to a stop before them. 

“Draco.” Zabini bent slightly in a bow. The woman beside him cowered backward, and Zabini pulled her forward with a snarl. 

“Zabini.” Malfoy flicked his wrist, his wand sliding into his hand from beneath the robes he wore. “I trust that you can handle training in my stead today?”

With a snort, Zabini leered at Hermione over Malfoy’s shoulder, but she stood her ground, glaring right back. “I think I can handle the trash, Malfoy.” His drawling voice grated on her nerves, and she gritted her teeth. 

Malfoy’s shoulders tensed slightly, and he spoke through his teeth. “I’ll be back tonight. Keep her alive.”

With that, he whirled away, cloak swirling out behind him, and Malfoy disappeared amongst the ranks of the other men.

As soon as the doors of the Manor clapped shut behind Malfoy, Zabini strode around her, sizing her up. The woman he’d dragged with him collapsed to the ground at her feet, and Hermione could see her trembling in the dirt. The Vehme watched around them, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Word around the Manor is that Malfoy has gone soft with your training since you saved his mummy.” Zabini’s voice was mocking, his eyes cold as he strode around her, kicking the woman’s trembling form and sending her sprawling at his feet. Zabini continued, spittle flying in his anger. “But Malfoy isn’t around today, so we’re going to fix that. Aren’t we?” Some of the Vehme cheered around them in response, but one eyed the ground warily. Theodore Nott looked at her, squinting as he assessed her stance. 

Her hand strayed to the holster at her thigh, and Hermione slowly slid her wand into her hand, willing her magic into it. But she refused to speak.

Zabini gestured to the woman on the ground. “You’ve practiced enough, Granger. You know the spells; you know the moves. Malfoy has been biding his time with you, too weak to make you do what needs to be done. He’s always been too magnanimous to those who spared his mother.” He cracked his knuckles, staring back at her over the woman. “Fortunately, that’s a flaw I don’t suffer from.” 

With a flick of his wand, the woman was wrenched to her knees, the cloak falling away from her face. Her hair was tangled and matted, and for a moment, Hermione thought it might have been her, _could_ have been her from the cellar, her memory brought to life. 

“Kill her.” 

The words echoed around them, and Hermione’s vision narrowed to the woman before her, to the terror awakening in the woman’s gaze and the darkening of the soil beneath the poor woman’s feet.

Zabini snarled at her, his wand held aloft. “You heard me, Mudblood. Training is over; if you’re to be part of the Vehme, you’ll have no problem ridding the world of more useless half-blood filth.”

The woman before her pleaded, and still Hermione couldn’t move, frozen to the spot as her pulse roared in her ear.

It wasn’t that she was scared. No, Hermione felt a profound calm that resonated deeply in her soul, that fed the magic that bore down the wand grasped firmly in her hand.

A magic that spoke to her very soul and told her just how wrong it was.

“No.”

Zabini’s eyes widened infinitesimally, and he laughed, a barking sound that echoed around the courtyard. “ _No_? You don’t get to say no.” 

Hermione didn’t deign his statement with a response, instead lighting her gaze on the woman before her, trying to convey her apologies in her gaze. The woman sobbed before her, hands clasped tightly over her eyes as she mumbled unintelligibly. Praying or broken, Hermione wasn’t sure, but she couldn’t stand another moment of it.

With a determined set to her jaw, Hermione snapped her gaze back up to Zabini, daring him to push her. When his lip drew back again, she took a deep breath and opened her hand.

The ashwood wand clattered to the ground.

Hermione whirled away, stalking across the clearing as adrenaline unfurled in her belly, forcing her steps faster than she wanted.

“Crabbe! Bring the girl.” 

Cold and harsh, Zabini’s voice brought her pause, and Hermione turned on her heel, watching as another woman, a woman with a head full of frizzy blonde curls was dragged into the circle.

Lavender.

Crabbe threw Lavender into Zabini’s grip, and his hand immediately wound in the girl’s hair in a painful gasp, her cry clear across the circle. His wand stabbed into the girl’s neck, and Hermione could see a tear roll down the girl’s cheek.

Zabini laughed cruelly. “Crabbe collected her for me this morning. He said she tried to call for you just after she left your room to collect you for training.” His smile turned into a leer. “Did you hear her scream?” 

Hermione’s hand clenched into a fist, cursing herself for dropping the wand that lay just metres before her, discarded in a moment of pride. 

“What’s the matter, Mudblood? Cat got your tongue? It certainly has hers.” Blaise dug is wand in, sending a jolt of magic down its tip, and a drop of blood sprung to the surface of Lavender’s skin. “Why don’t you sing for her, love?” he cooed in Lavender’s ear. “I know you sound so pretty when you beg.”

Lavender sobbed, her voice scratchy and weak from tears. “Hermione, please.” Lavender’s voice broke on the last word, fresh tracks of tears running down her cheeks.

Hermione sprang into action. Despite the fury raging through her, her magic sung true, and she summoned the wand into her hand without so much as a word. 

Hexes erupted from the tip of her wand, and she fired unseeingly at anyone who dared step in her path. Blaise laughed just beyond the edge of the training area, dragging Lavender backward until all that stood between them was the woman Hermione had walked away from. 

“Choose, Mudblood.” Blaise dug his wand further into Lavender’s neck, and a thin whine issued from her parted lips. “The blood-traitor or the filth.” 

Hermione hesitated, her wand hand shaking. 

Blaise huffed a manic laugh. “Are you deaf, you fucking bitch? I said to _fucking choose._ ” 

Laughter echoed through the crowd around them, the Vehme she’d injured crowding close to the spectacle they’d created. 

Somewhere in the crowd, one of them spat filthy words, his insults serving to send her flying into action. “The filth is too afraid to move.” 

Delving into the depths of her soul, she summoned the magic that burned in her core, channeling it through her wand and at the son of a bitch that held Lavender in his grasp. With a cry of pain, he released Lavender, and the girl fell to the ground, her fear illuminated in the emerald wand light. 

But still the curse did not stop.

Hermione advanced, pouring every ounce of hatred that welled in her soul into the curse. Zabini’s screams grew higher and higher, the pitch ringing in her ears as she bore down on him. 

For every insult he’d thrown her way. For every night he’d come into her cell and broken her, degraded her. For every instance he’d bore into her head to rifle through her memories, she pushed a bit more of her magic into the spell. 

And finally, the curse broke. A brilliant flare of light exploded around them, and silence reigned in the courtyard as she stared down at the broken man curled in a pitiful heap at her feet.

The others stepped back, the only sound of their presence a crunch on the gravel. Had any of them tried to wield that much magic, they’d have burnt out. They would have been broken messes of men, the magic too much to handle. But not Hermione. 

Hermione Granger was the weapon they never intended to create. And she would bow down to no one.

Hermione kicked Zabini with her toe, rolling the man over onto his back. He cried out, burns from the sheer magnitude of the spell covering his arms and legs. Inexplicably though, he began to laugh, a broken, painful wheeze of mirth.

“I always knew you had it in you,” he murmured, lips barely moving through the cracks rent open wide from the spell damage. “Just needed a bit of—” he coughed, blood sputtering from his lips and landing on the off-white of his training garb. “—a bit of prodding.” 

She sneered down at him, and when his laughter just increased, she raised her wand.

“Look around you,” Zabini croaked, not bothering to shy away from her wand. “They fear you; they fear what _we_ did to you. What we made of you.” 

Against her better judgment, Hermione looked and indeed saw the fear in the Vehme’s eyes, the hesitance with which they approached the singed ground around them. 

Zabini groaned, turning his head to stare at the woman on the ground, her eyes gazing unseeing at the sky. Laughter once more trickled from his lips. “You made your decision.” When his brown eyes locked on hers, Hermione’s blood ran cold. “Her blood is on your hands. Welcome to the Vehme.”

Without thinking of the consequences, without stopping to ask what Zabini meant or why he’d pushed her to such lengths, Hermione’s grip tightened on her wand. With another flash of emerald light, Hermione ended the pained guffaws that Zabini forced through his cracked lips with a sharp, “ _Avada Kedavra_.” 

A part of her seemed to crack a bit at the sudden jolt that left her. 

With a start, Hermione paused. The crack—

Sudden and true fear, the first she’d felt since the drawing room, raced through her veins. What if—

Could she have ripped her soul? Her limbs moved of their own accord, crossing the singed ground and crouching beside the woman’s body. Her eyes gazed to the sky, bloodshot lines skittering outward from bright blue irises. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Hermione felt for a pulse, for a breath, for _anything_ that indicated she hadn’t murdered this woman in the crossfire of her rage.

Lavender slowly approached Hermione’s frantic figure, pulling her hands away from the woman’s corpse and wiping the blood that Hermione had been frantically clearing from the woman’s face on her hands. 

Her calm voice pierced the fear, but only just. “Hermione, she’s gone. It’s okay. You didn’t mean to.”

“Granger!” Malfoy’s voice cut through the fog, the command in it a bucket of cold water that froze her shaking hands and straightened her spine. Like an automaton, she swiveled on her heel and faced the man, his steps sending plumes of dust flying. Nott followed at his heels.

Malfoy’s silver eyes were dilated, his anger a palpable force. “Explain yourself. Now.” His tone brooked no room for opposition, and she spoke, the words tumbling out tonelessly.

“He threatened Lavender; he made me choose.” She swallowed, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. “They— he made me choose. So I made them pay.” Hermione turned to gaze at the Italian man’s body, twisted in death. “I’ll make you all pay,” she added.

Malfoy snarled, advancing on her until he wrapped his hand around her throat, though he didn’t squeeze, his thumb pressing lightly on her pulse point. “What gives you the impression that you hold any sort of power here?” 

Hermione’s expression was calm, though she felt a tick in her cheek, her teeth clenching together. “This.” She held up her hand, magic dancing freely along her fingertips, when a voice slipped through her subconscious, quelling the magic.

_Breathe._

With a roar of rage, Malfoy turned on his heel, releasing his hold on her throat while addressing the other men. “Clean this up. You’re to attend to Zabini’s body; dress him in his robes and await further orders.” He glared down at the woman’s body. “Dispose of this; the Dark Lord will want no evidence.” 

He spun on his heel, Lavender once more approaching Hermione. But Malfoy stopped, glaring over his shoulder at them. “Get the blood-traitor out of my sight. Granger is to come with me.” 

With a yelp, Nott clamped a hand over Lavender’s forearm, dragging her in the direction of the manor. Against her volition, Hermione’s feet followed Malfoy’s path, curses brewing in her mind. 

Upon entering the manor, Malfoy dragged her into the mud room, his hand finding her shoulder in an angry grip. When he realised the pressure with which he gripped her, he quickly withdrew, a mixture of fury and—though she thought she might be mistaken—fear written on his face.

“What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing?” The question was so out of character for him that Hermione stared back, unable to answer. He didn’t speak to her. This question, the unwavering attention he held on her, was unnerving and she didn’t know how to respond.

Malfoy huffed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed locks and paced the room. With a shout, he slammed his fist into one of the washboards littering the room, an elf-sized piece of wood that shattered into hundreds of pieces.

He spun around, fury turning his eyes into a maelstrom of greys, and he stalked towards her. “You’ve just killed one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servants in front of his army. You are aware that you have likely signed your death warrant?” 

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that tittered out of her. The manic expression in his eyes, the messy hair, the drops of spittle that rained from Draco’s mouth as he shouted at her, all of it coiled into the perfect image of Draco Malfoy totally unhinged, and she fucking loved it.

Disbelief bloomed in his eyes, and he closed the distance between them, his hand once more wrapping around her throat. “What the bloody hell is so gods damned funny about this, you crazy bint? Do you like knowing that this is likely your last day to fucking live? Do you get off on the idea that the Dark Lord will rip you apart and hang your pretty little head up as a warning to the others?” 

His grip tightened, and Hermione saw black stars dance across her vision. “And you have the gall—”

“Draco.”

Mercifully, Malfoy’s grip on her loosened, his hand flying back to his side as he whirled around to face the intruder. 

Nott stood in the doorway, a mottled red handprint rising across his cheek. Just behind him, Ron leered at them, and Hermione’s momentary satisfaction at the win died. 

Theodore cleared his throat, peering down at his feet before he spoke. “I apologize for the interruption, but the Dark Lord has requested your presence.” 

With a sneer over his shoulder, Draco crossed the room, shouldering his way through the two men. It wasn’t until Malfoy was a few steps beyond them that Theo spoke again. 

“He wants to see you both.” 

Beyond him, Draco’s hands curled into fists, and with a curt nod, he spoke with his back still to them. “I trust you’ve learned the halls well enough that you can escort her yourself, Nott.” With that, Malfoy raced down the hallway, leaving Hermione behind. 

Nott straightened his shoulders, and for the briefest moment, Hermione saw sorrow flash in the depths of his green eyes. Belatedly, she realized that she’d often seen Nott, Malfoy, and Zabini together on the Hogwarts Express and the castle grounds.

She’d killed their friend.

Somewhere deep in her, guilt rose like a tidal wave, threatening to drag her under at a moment’s notice, but all too soon, the magic Malfoy had hit her with rose up, swallowing the emotion and Hermione was left adrift in her hatred again.

Nott’s eyes were an anchor, and with his nod, she followed him from the room, feeling the glare of Ron’s ruined eye following her in her retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and MsMerlin13 for their encouragement and love. Major beta hugs and love to tofadeawayagain, whose email back with edits for this chapter made me grin like mad at work. Thanks for being such a gem!


	15. Three of Pentacles in Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! This one is bit more action packed than normal, and I'm looking forward to hearing what you think. Before we start, a shoutout to a couple reviews: yes, there will be more dialogue going forward! There was quite the foundation to lay, and now we're moving into some major revelations, lots more character action, etc. And another, to KittenWitch, the anon who gave me a lovely new insult to use: utter tosh, in case anyone was looking for one themselves. Quite versatile, I've found. Lol but anyway, on to the chap!

**Chapter 15 -** **_Three of Pentacles in Reverse_ **

Voldemort towered over Hermione and Draco, his displeasure palpable in the room. 

He sat upon his dais, the folds of his cloak cushioning him on the seat. House-elves bustled about the room, preparing for the revel that the Dark Lord had announced in Blaise’s honour. It was to be that night, and then Blaise would be buried with a funeral pyre.

A celebration for a hero, he’d called it.

Hermione had scoffed. _A hero_. How could someone with blood so thick on their hands be called a hero? She stared down at her own, however, as Voldemort railed on about the cause before her. 

Just under her nails, rings of crimson stared back at her. They were quickly browning, the oxidation process already wiping away the living cells in the blood. How quickly nature was to forget a life, how easy it was to extinguish.

She couldn’t escape the nagging question of whether the blood was Zabini’s or the nameless woman’s. 

Voldemort paused in his speech, staring down at her. Hermione did not balk, instead throwing every ounce of defiance at him she could. 

“You’ve killed someone very dear to me, Miss Granger.” He studied her, his long, gnarled fingernails tapping against the chair’s arms. “Do you know what we do to traitors here?”

She’d expected this—expected _more_ —so her expression did not waver as he glared at her.

With a sweeping gesture, Voldemort indicated the hall around them. “All of this—the manor, the grounds, the wizarding world—all of this was made to keep us safe. To keep magical beings from being subject to the destruction your kind wreak, the _filth_ and _vitriol_ that you rain down upon us.” His grip tightened on the chair, dark tendrils of his own magic curling out and cracking the armrest. In the corner of the room, Goyle’s body wound tighter at Voldemort’s tirade. “And yet here you are, accepted into my ranks, your fealty pledged to me, and you’ve _killed one of my own men._ ”

Hermione could have heard a pin drop. Even the house-elves had ceased their work, shrinking into the shadows as the tension grew. Her heartbeat roared in her ear and her breath caught in her lungs as she waited for the death sentence, her light to be snuffed out by the jet of green light that stole Harry’s.

But it never came.

Instead, Voldemort leaned back into his chair. “It seems I have underestimated you, Miss Granger.” 

The tension that had coiled in Goyle’s body unfurled, sending him springing forward. “My Lord, she has _murdered_ —” 

With a slash of Voldemort’s hand, Goyle fell silent. The Dark Lord spoke. “I am well aware of what she has done.” Goyle’s head inclined, and Voldemort turned to Draco. “I am also aware of the power that she displayed. Tell me, dear boy, did you see the depths of power she conjured?” 

Draco’s voice trembled slightly when he spoke, though there was something like awe weaving through the words, colouring their cadence in a strange melody. “It was— it was like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Voldemort hummed in agreement. “Like nothing the wizarding world has ever seen before. At least—” he paused, peering down at Hermione with his head cocked in study. “—like nothing the modern wizarding world has seen before.”

“My Lord—”

Voldemort swept from his chair. “We’ve heard reports of an uprising in the east.” 

Draco stumbled back alongside Hermione, dumbstruck confusion written across his features at the rapid change in conversation. Hermione, too, reeled at the shift.

When Voldemort turned to face them, a cruel smile played over his lips. “Go to the front lines and find the Order.” 

Draco swept into a low bow, Voldemort’s order of the utmost importance, superseding even his grief over his lost friend. “Take the girl with you.”

Malfoy shot upright once more, objections springing to his lips. “But my Lord, she just—”

Another deadly glare silenced Draco. “The girl is to go with you; you’ve trained her well.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and Nott stepped forward, wrapping his hand around her bicep. As he pulled her away, Voldemort called after them.

“You are to find them. And _she_ is to kill them.” 

The revel lasted until the wee hours of the morning. All of the Vehme were required to attend.

Hermione stood in her room, studying the dark bruises that had sprung to life on her skin in the hours of the revel.

The Vehme had recovered from the shock of losing one of their own; she had been made to pay for it.

Voldemort wouldn’t let them torture her—not with curses, anyway. No, instead, the Vehme sidled up beside her where she hid away in the shadows, hexes fired at her from covert wands.

Some chose to attack her the Muggle way, sneaking in punches and kicks that Voldemort chose to ignore. Her fingertips lingered on the dip of her cleavage, the swell of her breast just visible in the deep vee of the ball gown that another nameless maid had dressed her in since Lavender had yet to return. Cigarette burns littered the skin there, and she hissed at the remembered pain as her fingertips danced over the burns. 

The bruises on her face, the burns that littered her body, all of it would heal. None of it was life threatening, of that they’d made sure. But the marks were meant as a reminder.

Hermione may be trained in the Vehme’s ways, she might become a contracted killer for the Dark Lord, but she would never be one of them. Especially now that she had killed one of their own.  

Hermione hadn’t responded to any of it. Let them hurt her, let them kick her, let them do whatever they _bloody well_ pleased. She had absolutely no desire to be them, and her flat apathy only drove them to burn more, to kick harder.

After long minutes of staring at herself in the mirror, Hermione retired to bed, stripping out of the ball gown and dropping the hair from her updo, allowing it to cascade around her shoulders in a mess of tangled curls.

Tomorrow, she would go to war. Tomorrow, she would kill.

Tonight, however… tonight she would mourn.

Mourning was a strange concept when she didn’t truly feel the pain. Hermione knew it ought to be there, could sense it just beyond the walls that had been erected in her mind, but it existed just beyond her reach, a foreign concept.

She replayed the scenario in her mind: Zabini grabbing hold of Lavender, his wand tip pressed into her throat, the incredible rage that fueled her. The rush of magic seemed depthless, an ancient power so great that Hermione thought it might never end, that it might consume her all with it. 

Though she was hard pressed to admit it, the power had been addicting. Sensuous. It allowed her to give up the control she’d fought to regain in the past few weeks. It called to that dark place inside her and took root, weaving around her psyche in a lover’s embrace.

And seeing Zabini dead on the ground—she should have been scared at the utter depth of her satisfaction. Instead, her mind continued to replay the moment she watched the light fade from his eyes, the slippery trails the blood streaked down his face. It was with grim satisfaction that Hermione allowed herself to finally accept a truth she hadn’t yet allowed free.

The old her was well and truly gone.

It was a fact that resonated in her bones. The horrors she’d seen, the deaths she caused… no one could come back from that. Particularly not when she was sure that the rending she’d felt in her chest earlier had been a small part of her soul breaking away, tearing into a tiny piece.

She’d read about the phenomenon once. In a textbook she wasn’t supposed to find, locked in a cabinet in Professor Dumbledore’s office. They called them Horcruxes, tiny pieces of the soul broken away after an intentional murder. They could be stored, Hermione recalled, in another object, something mundane and simple to keep others from finding it.

Real fear then, an aching so primal that it shook her to her core, filled her. Fear at what she might do when pushed.

When prodded.

When _broken._

The thought kept her awake until the night broke, rays of sunlight setting the room alight with a deep golden hue, staring up into the newly canopied bed, her magic a sleeping dragon within her.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione questioned the girl across from her quietly, staring at Lavender over her mug of tea. The girl had returned to Hermione’s quarters that morning and roused her from bed, a purple and black bruise blossoming over her left eye. Hermione wasn’t sure if the shiner was her fault or Blaise’s, but she’d felt indignation flare in her nonetheless.

Lavender cleared her throat. “I’m fine.” Her voice was wispy, a poor imitation of the boisterous, happy tone Hermione associated with her. The girl grimaced, acknowledging the difference and spoke again, her voice stronger. “I’m fine. Better than the alternative.” She offered Hermione a weak smile.

Death. That was the alternative, the word lingering in the air between them unspoken Hermione’s fingers curled tighter around the mug, inadvertently sending a jolt of her magic through the ceramic. When she brought it to her lips again, the liquid had turned to ice.

With a sigh, Hermione discarded the mug before her, running her fingertips over the lip of the cool stone. She looked up at the girl from beneath her lashes. Lavender sat on the bench accompanying Hermione’s vanity, shoulders hunched inward, defeated. The strong line of her jaw was softened by her attempt to minimize herself, and Hermione felt a surge of protectiveness shoot through her.

Harry would have laughed; Hermione, protecting a girl she loathed.

With a sudden need to warn the girl, Hermione leaned forward. “Lavender, listen to me.”

The urgency in her voice must have been clear, because Lavender straightened, eyeing the door to Hermione’s room with wide, wary eyes. 

“Don’t trust anyone. Don’t go anywhere alone. There are—”

“Eyes everywhere.” The voice was quiet, gravely. The door between Hermione and Draco’s room thudded against the papered walls, and Lavender reeled backward, terror etched in the premature lines of her face. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorframe, watching them with an inscrutable gaze.

Lavender swept the remainder of Hermione’s breakfast onto the tray she carried, bowing deeply with muttered apologies. As she crossed the room to hastily exit, Malfoy met her in the middle, wrapping a hand around Lavender’s upper arm. Hermione couldn’t hear the words that he spoke to her, but it was clear that they reassured whatever fears Lavender fought with. The girl nodded once and made her way out the door.

When they were alone again, Hermione looked up at Draco. “What did you say to her?”

Draco stared her down, crossing the room, spinning a scroll of parchment between his fingertips. He stopped just before her. “Nothing you wouldn’t have told her yourself.” 

Hermione hummed, aware that this was the first time in her presence that he hadn’t given her a direct command to obey him. She could feel the curse hum in response to his proximity, could feel him cautiously prodding the Occlumency walls she’d erected once afforded use of her magic again, but he didn’t force anything of her. “Why?”

Silence extended between them, and Hermione felt one last prod against her shield before the tentative truce between them snapped and Malfoy’s mask fell back into place.

“Let’s go, Granger.” He gestured toward the door with a harsh wave of his hand, and Hermione proceeded out of the room, watching him closely out of the corner of her eye.

He was perplexing. Nevermind the fact that she hated him for everything he’d done to her, to Harry, but she couldn’t figure out where he got off thinking that he could play saviour after letting her waste away in the cellar of his home for months. After allowing his cronies to break her, and then forcing her to bend to his will with this godsforsaken spell.

Malfoy swept past her on their route to the ballroom, robes billowing out behind him. He was wearing the deep charcoal robes that designated his rank again, and she’d been instructed to wear the scarlet of the Vehme. To an outsider, she supposed that they would have looked quite the powerful couple, and her stomach roiled at the relationship and power their attire connoted. 

Inside, she wanted to rail against him and cut him down as much as she could. 

They were steps from the ballroom when a hand shot out of a dimly lit corridor, wrapped around Draco’s wrist, and tugged him within the shadows.

Hermione’s guard shot up, and she slid her wand from the holster on her thigh, aiming it into the darkness. When her name was hissed from within the shadows, she stepped cautiously forward, daring whatever was within them to harm her.

What she hadn’t expected, however, was the same thin, reedy hand to wrap around her wrist and yank her into the shadows as well.

Hermione bucked backwards, throwing her bodyweight into a fall that yanked the assailant towards her before she spun and pinned them to the wall. When her eyes finally adjusted and she’d blinked the dust out of her eyes, surprise caused her wand to slip from the offensive poise against their neck.

Theo.

He blinked back at her, dirt smearing his nose and across his shirt where she’d thrown him into the wall. His teeth snapped together, and Hermione could tell he was fighting the urge to quip something at her, to tell her off. Instead, he slowly reached up and wrapped his hand around the ashwood wand, pushing it away with a raised brow.

“You’re to come with me.” Theo spoke to both of them, though his gaze never left Hermione’s, and her mind whirred, trying to gauge the situation. Of all the reasons she might have been yanked into a dusty corridor, his escort to their mission was one of the last she thought she’d come up with.

A furtive gaze down the corridor told Hermione that Theo was alone, and she slowly eased back, though she did raise her wand to train on him again. 

With a steady hand, Theo rubbed the spot she’d pressed her wand to, and she started when she noticed the angry red spot fresh against his skin where the wood had pressed.

Theo cleared his throat and spoke again, finally directing his attention to Malfoy. “Our Lord has requested discretion with this mission; he’d like to keep this from the rest of the Vehme until it proves fruitful.” He made his way down the hall, dust plumes rising in his wake, and Draco trailed him.

Theo Nott was… different from the other Vehme. Hermione had studied him during their training sessions, and she noticed that he tended to err on the side of caution, favouring the attacks that would garner the most effect and least bloodshed. It was an effective strategy, especially considering the way the other Vehme sought blood in all their interactions.

The end of the passage opened into a small room with only a fireplace and an armchair. Both looked well worn, and Hermione guessed that they might have seen more use in past years. Now, it appeared as though the room was simply used as a passageway. 

When Theo stopped before the fireplace, he looked over his shoulder at them. “We’ll Floo to Borgin and Burkes. Once there, we’ll split up. Malfoy, the Dark Lord wants you to target the shops—don’t cause too much damage, but root out the renegades by whatever means necessary. Granger, you’re coming with me.” He leveled a look at her. “And don’t try anything.”

Malfoy nodded, staring into the flames. The whole exchange was bizarre, Malfoy acquiescing to Nott’s instructions so easily, but when Theo held out the Floo powder, he clapped his free hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “Be careful out there.” Real concern shone in the man’s eyes, an unguarded expression Hermione hadn’t seen on him before. “Come back alive.” 

Malfoy nodded sharply and scooped up a handful of powder, tossing it into the flames with a shout. He was gone a moment later.

Nott stared after him, brow furrowed, before he looked at Hermione. With an outstretched hand, he gestured her forward, and she scooped up a handful of powder. Just as she tossed the powder into the flames, Hermione thought she heard him say something, thought the concern in his gaze extended to her, but the roar of the flames whirled her away before she could question it.

Grate after grate flew past Hermione in a dizzying rush of colour; when she finally stopped just inside the shop filled with odds and ends, her head spun. Vomit threatened, but she forced herself upright and stepped forward, brushing the soot from her shoulders. 

Malfoy stood at the window to the shop, gazing out at the street beyond. The windows were grimy, the light low and streets dirty, a far cry from Diagon Alley, but then she’d only been down Nocturne Alley once with Harry and Ron before everything fell apart. Witches and wizards scuttled within the shadows. Booms echoed somewhere beyond the building.

Something deep inside her fractured a bit at the broken world that so resembled the one she had once loved. But a crook of his head brought Hermione forward, the subtle command on her magic bringing her to his side. When he gazed back out the window, Hermione saw what he’d been watching.

Flames erupted from the rooftop of Gringotts, violent oranges and reds dancing on the cobblestones of the alley barely visible from the dark depths of Nocturne. Even from here, with a pane of glass and several buildings separating her from the inferno, she could feel the heat of the flame. She could hear the violent popping and cracking as the building’s structural integrity was eaten away by the flames.

Beside her, Malfoy stood still, his face drawn in a pensive contemplation. It was only broken when the Floo roared to life behind them and Theo strode forward.

“Merlin’s beard, they’re already here,” Theo breathed. With several more swears under his breath, Theo moved toward the doorway. “You know the orders, Malfoy. Make sure you carry them out.” 

Draco nodded and turned on his heel, Apparating away with a crack. With a grim frown, Theo looked at Hermione. “Let’s go.” 

The streets were a hazy grey as Hermione followed after Nott. As they neared the inferno, breathing grew difficult, and Hermione ducked into the abandoned doorway of Florean Fortescue’s, her wand slick in her hand from the rising heat. With a muttered breath, she cast a Bubble-Head Charm on them, inhaling deeply again. With an appreciative nod, Nott followed her lead, and they crept forward again.

Hermione wasn’t sure what she had been expecting upon seeing wizarding London again, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the broken out windows of shops she’d visited as a child, it wasn’t the oppressive feeling of dread in the air that she couldn’t seem to shake even with the blood curse robbing her of her emotional drive. 

She’d expected the optimistic drive of the wizarding community she’d come to love. The plucky spirit of witches and wizards who refused to be broken.

But walking down the alley, wand aloft, it was all gone. As her footsteps crunched on broken glass and wares from the shops, the hair along the back of her neck rose. Even the magical core of London felt off, felt _dirty_ , like it had been exposed to something evil and was roiling in its dying throes. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw a figure dart between the portion of Gringotts yet unburnt and the brick wall. On instinct, she shot after them, Theo’s shout echoing behind her.

The burn of the flame was smothering in the alleyway, the air so hot and the fire so close that she smelled the ends of her hair burning. As she ran, she catalogued the rubble around her: a discarded bin, heaps of stones that had fallen from Gringotts’ towers. Anything around her was a weapon should she need it, and her mind whirred at the possibilities.

Until she reached the brick wall at the end of the passage and could go no further.

Hermione spun around, peering back the way she had come. Theo was nowhere to be seen, and the figure she had pursued had also disappeared into the night. She was alone, sweat trickling down her back and pooling along the edge of her knickers. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she dropped to a crouch before a jet of light flew over her shoulder.

Behind her, the cloaked person she’d pursued emerged, rippling back into existence as they cancelled the concealing charm they’d cast around themselves. With a disbelieving cry, they lowered the hood from their head.

Seamus.

His face was marred with scars, a deep gash slashing sideways over his right eye and turning it a milky white. Along the side of his face, his skin had turned into an angry, mottled red, the ruined flesh shining in the light of the fire. He stepped towards her, hope in his expression as he ran his eyes over her face, her hair, searching for an answer in her stance. When his gaze landed on the crimson garb she wore, he froze, fear lighting his eyes.

“Hermione?” Disbelief cracked his voice, and he nervously alternated between her face and her robes, trying to process what he saw before him.

Wand clutched in her sweat-soaked hand, Hermione stepped forward, free hand raised as she approached him. “It’s me, Seamus. I’m fine.” Even her voice sounded off, lacking the warmth that she hadn’t even realised she’d grown accustomed to hearing in it in her youth. Part of her screamed at him to help her, to see past the robes and see the witch locked away behind the spellwork she was trapped in, but Seamus stumbled back a step, wand rising shakily and pointing squarely in her chest.

“What have they done to you?” He hissed the words at her, eyes narrowing into angry slits as he pawed desperately at the front of his robes. From within, he pulled out a gold coin, the Galleon she’d given Dumbledore’s Army to communicate and frantically turned it, dropping it to the ground in his haste to press his wand into it and send the message. Seamus scrambled for it frantically, knocking it closer to her feet, and lunged.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” With a snap, the Galleon flew over her shoulder into Theo’s waiting hand. The wizard advanced, warily eyeing the exchange. “Hermione, we have orders.”

Seamus’ jaw dropped, his cheeks reddening at the scene before him. “You’re one of _them_ . Hermione, they’re _murderers._ ” 

She raised her shoulder and let it fall, the finality of the gesture not lost on Seamus as he sagged against the wall. “I did what I had to do.” 

Hermione raised her wand, preparing to stun him, to bring him into custody when his hand shot up, releasing the clasp on his robes. When they fell open, Theo cursed beside her and his hand wrapped around her wand, shoving it roughly to her side.

Strapped to Seamus’ chest was a crudely rigged bomb, Muggle in nature, though the pulsating blackness around it spoke of the magic imbued within it. Carefully, the wizard pressed his wand to it, hand shaking.

Seamus’ voice broke when he spoke. “They knew you’d come—we’ve been tracing your movements, keeping track of what events the Vehme responds to. And so we knew that a few carefully arranged attacks on manor homes would arouse anger.” He swallowed, wand faltering. “An attack like this? In the open and so soon after the others? We knew they wouldn’t be able to resist it.”

Beside her, Theo tensed, his wand clenched tightly in his fist. A trap. And they’d walked into it.

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I don’t know what they’ve done to you, but this—” he gestured to her, the way she had crouched back defensively and shielded Theo without intending to “—this isn’t you.” He looked at her sorrowfully. “I never wanted to hurt anyone, but every war needs a martyr, and we’ve lost you. Someday they’ll know that I never really meant to hurt anyone.” 

Time slowed as Seamus’ twitched his hand just so, the telltale sign that he was about to Apparate away, and Hermione acted. 

With a determined shout, she summoned the pile of rubble, the groan of the building swaying in its absence deafening around them, and her other hand shot out, sending a hex hurtling toward Seamus.

His eyes widened as the hex collided with his makeshift bomb, and the world around them exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, alpha love to MsMerlin13 and LadyKenz347 and beta love to tofadeaway again. I'm going to try to catch up on responding to reviews this weekend; I'm sorry I'm so behind but I love hearing from you all so much!


	16. The Tower in Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! I'm really excited for the next few chapters. I hope you are too! Answers are slowly, slowly, _slowly_ beginning to trickle in, and I hope you enjoy unravelling them as much as I've enjoyed weaving them. Also shoutout to the people who pointed out that Knockturn Alley was mispelled; I appreciate you guys!

**Chapter 16 -** _**The Tower in Reverse** _

The explosion rattled the ground around them, and Hermione hurtled through the air. Her bones crunched when she hit the ground, distantly reminding her of what had brought her to this place, and her skin peeled away as she skidded across the ground on the heat-blasted cobbles.

When she slammed into the brick wall, she lay there for a moment, ears ringing as she tried to regain her bearings and force air back into her screaming lungs. Red tinted her vision when she opened her eyes, and she barely heard her name called through coughs.

Hermione pressed her hands into the searing ground, ignoring the slight sizzle of flesh as she steadied herself and pushed away from the ground. When she finally stood on shaky legs, ash and debris rained around her in sheets of grey. Hermione was distinctly aware of the smell of burning flesh that heralded the burnt and broken bodies inside, but her mind spun away from the thought, refusing to acknowledge its significance. The alley blinked in and out of focus, a strobing effect from the flickering flames. What met her gaze was ruined buildings and chunks of debris, all littered with fragmented memories of her idyllic childhood dreams of the wizarding world. And it was crushed around her, burning away under the flames that ate at its surface.

Hermione blindly stumbled forward, the world spinning around her as she tried to make sense of what she saw. Where the end of the alley had been, a crater gaped, still crackling with the magic that had been contained in Seamus' bomb. Shrapnel protruded from the shop walls around her, and Gringotts swayed precariously toward the alleyway.

Hermione stumbled forward, falling to her knees at the edge of the crater. Even with her eyes closed, the world spun around her in a mockery of a carousel, rapidly alternating from the harsh glow of the fire to the black depths of shadows, and she vomited her breakfast in a violent heave, the acid burning her already ruined throat. It was only when she opened her eyes and looked down that she noticed the large splinter of wood protruding from her side.

Acknowledging the injury brought the pain. She vaguely remembered reading somewhere that many injuries could go unnoticed if they weren't directly acknowledged, and the searing pain that tore through her side at the sight confirmed the theory.

With steady fingers, she prodded the injury, assessing its extent. The splinter seemed to have missed most of her vital organs, though warm blood continued to seep through as she pressed the skin around it. She wasn't foolish enough to pull the foreign item out of her body; she was all too aware of what happened when a field injury was disturbed, so she left it, blinking through the black spots that danced across her vision.

Crunching footsteps sounded down the alley, and Hermione peered over her shoulder, watching as a small crowd of witches and wizards collected beyond the fallout of the bomb. A quiet ripple went through the people, whispers traveling from one to the next as they recognized her.

_It's Hermione Granger - Potter's friend._

_The one that killed him._

_She's one of_ them.

The chatter overlapped, none of them paying attention to the fire raging in the building alongside them, and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, her stomach roiling as another bout of nausea threatened. When a hand wrapped painfully over her shoulder, Hermione glared up into Theo's blue-grey eyes

"We've got to get out of here, Granger. Can you walk?" He stared down at her, assessing the wound much like she had. His brow furrowed, and he glanced toward the crowd behind them, tension growing as they began to gesticulate in their direction, one dirty wizard pulling his taped together wand out of his robes and aiming at them.

Theo swore under his breath. "Let's go." He swept an arm under her shoulder, jostling the piece of wood deeper. "Fuck. You can't Apparate like this." He released her, and Hermione sank to the ground with a groan. "Stay behind me, Granger."

From behind his crouched stance, Hermione saw the crowd tighten, starting a bit when she saw a few familiar faces within the angry mob.

Theo stood his ground, watching the wizards advance, but neither side struck. The one wizard clutching the wand seemed fearful that even waving it would wreak destruction, and several others glanced warily at the burning building. When they got within earshot, Theo spoke over the dull roar of the flames.

"We don't want any trouble." The flames danced over his crimson cloak, and the crowd paused, eyeing him warily. "We've come to stop attacks such as this—we don't wish to destroy the magical world. We want to  _save_ it. From attacks like this. From attacks from the outside—from the Muggle world, the half-bloods." His hand tightened on his wand, and Hermione saw the nervous tick of the muscles in his throat.

Suddenly, the building beside them swayed and buckled. Despite the curse, her heart cried out as the building began to crumple over the crowd of onlookers.

Theo swept behind her again, once more wrapping his hand under her shoulders with a hasty apology. Cracks of Apparition rang out around them, and Theo shouted at her over the groaning building. "Whatever you do, don't let go!"

Theo turned on his heel, dragging them into the darkness as more blood poured out of Hermione's wound.

* * *

Hermione crashed to the floor when they arrived, her head pounding with the effort of keeping her grasp on Theo as they traveled back to the Manor. Her gut churned again, saliva pooling in her mouth as a cold sweat broke out on her back, but Hermione forced the sick back, refusing to vomit again.

Without so much as a word to her, Theo sprinted out of the room, shouting for a healer to come immediately.

Within moments, the slap of slippered feet echoed down the corridor that they had entered through earlier that morning. Eyes still closed, Hermione gritted her teeth on a scream as two sets of hands wrenched her upright and placed her on a table that was conjured in the middle of the room.

The metal was cold against her back and she was distantly aware of the harsh rip of her shirt being torn open down the front, and Hermione froze.

Despite the spell, despite the fear running through her, she was paralyzed. The metal against her skin, the hands holding her down against the table… all of it was a scene she'd played through before, and she couldn't bear the thought that this was just another dream, another deception that they'd forced her through.

That she might wake up still in the cellar strapped to that table as they ripped her apart.

The magic within her broke and shot across the room, a shockwave of black rippling out of her. All around her, magic crackled, dancing in her hair and running across her skin. It formed a protective barrier around her, ice cold in its shell, and Hermione's eyes shot open, staring at the ceiling.

Shards of ice had lodged themselves into the walls, witches and wizards in their robes scattered across the floor as they stared up at her, a mixture of fear and awe in their eyes. None of them approached her, but from across the room, a quiet, soothing voice caught her attention.

Theo approached slowly, his hands held up to show her that he wouldn't harm her. He spoke to her slowly, maintaining eye contact. "Granger, they're here to help you. Let them get the wood out of your side."

Hermione gritted her teeth again, magic pulsing at a fresh wave of pain in her side. Theo's eyes widened and he froze, watching a fresh layer of ice form on the table she was splayed out on. Brief understanding crossed his face, and he nodded swiftly.

"McNair, Yaxley, get her off that table." Footsteps shuffled up beside her, and the same pair of rough hands lifted her from the surface, transferring her to the recliner that Theo had hastily transformed into a chaise lounge. When she was settled on the plush surface, she forcefully willed the magic back, and she stared up at the ceiling as footsteps approached her once more.

Cool, methodical hands worked at the skin near the wound, and Hermione hissed out a sharp breath as the warmth of a diagnostic spell washed over her. It sunk into her skin, the probing magic soothing worn nerves in its wake. As the pain calmed, Hermione opened her eyes, blinking up at the witch that worked over her.

Surprise jolted through her. She recognized that face, and the impeccably tailored blonde and black hair pulled away from her in a severe bun, so unlike how the woman normally wore it. Narcissa Malfoy?

Hermione's mind raced, trying to place whether or not she knew that the Malfoy matriarch was a mediwitch. For the life of her, though, she couldn't understand it. Why would the witch attend to her, a Mudblood forced into her home?

She must have squirmed because Narcissa paused, staring down at her with a stern expression. After a beat, she resumed her work. "If you will, Ms. Granger, please lie still. This is unpleasant, and it will only get worse if you move."

Her sure hands wrapped around the piece of wood, and Hermione couldn't hold back her scream as Narcissa wrenched the shrapnel from her side. Her vision went grey, and Hermione was aware that her scream had turned into a pitiful moan as the pain localised to that spot.

Suddenly, Theo was beside her, shoving a pain potion into her mouth, and she sucked down the potion greedily, its thick, bitter paste sticking to her tongue despite the swallows she tried to force it down in. With a sigh of relief, the pain ebbed away slowly, and she watched in fascination at the diligence with which Narcissa worked.

Her hands were steady, though Hermione could tell the amount of blood had shaken her. Narcissa's skin had paled noticeably, porcelain skin tinting slightly green, but the woman continued her work. With one hand, she kept the diagnostic spell steady. The other cleared away the wound with a wave. As soon as it was clear, she demanded one of the other witches to apply an antiseptic spell to the area.

Cool moisture washed over Hermione's skin, the sharp tang of the antiseptic filled her nostrils, and suddenly Narcissa loomed over her again. This time, her wand was in her blood-stained hand, and she trained it carefully above Hermione's side. With careful, deliberate strokes, the skin knit itself back together under Narcissa's watch.

With the skin closed, Theo breathed out a harsh, relieved breath beside her. Hermione looked up, brow furrowed at the display of emotion, puzzled at his reluctance to meet her gaze. Just before she opened her mouth to speak, the Floo roared to life, and Draco stumbled out.

His robes were covered in soot and ash, his cheeks smudged with smoke. For a moment, he stared around the room, wild-eyed, until his gaze landed on Hermione, Theo, and his mother. With a deep breath, he carefully arranged his features again, but Hermione didn't miss the way his shoulders sagged with what she would have called relief if she hadn't known better.

In a few short strides, he was beside her. "Nott, what in Merlin's name happened?"

Theo opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut him off, her voice and throat scratchy from the smoke she'd inhaled. "It's not his fault. I followed someone down the alley near Gringotts. It was Seamus—Seamus Finnegan." Draco's gaze narrowed in recognition. "When he realised that I'm with the Vehme, he detonated a bomb he'd rigged."

Draco swore and looked to Theo for confirmation. "He said every war needs a martyr." His eyes flickered to Hermione's face, but he didn't betray her lie.

Grim lines etched themselves around Draco's eyes, and he shared a long look with his mother. After a moment, he looked away. "Clean her up." The words were spoken to the room, and he refused to look at her. "Get her back to her room. She'll need to rest before we report to the Dark Lord." He paused, staring between her and Theo. "Did anyone see you?"

Theo's lips flattened into a thin line. "About twelve witches and wizards. They know it's her."

Beside her, Narcissa startled, dropping the vial of blood replenishing potion she'd summoned. Hermione hadn't thought it possible, but the woman's pallor lightened further, and Narcissa snapped at one of the other witches to bring her more potion. With a muttered apology, Narcissa excused herself, swift steps carrying her out of the room.

Draco stared after his mother. "The Dark Lord will need to know. Theo, stay with her until she's stable enough to stand. Send me an owl, and I'll meet you to discuss our findings with our Lord."

With that, Draco followed his mother's path out of the room and Theo once more slid his arm beneath Hermione's shoulder and escorted her to her room.

* * *

When Theo deposited her on her downy mattress and retreated, Hermione didn't speak. Instead, she picked up a book and stared at the pages, the words swimming before her unfocused gaze. Somewhere near her, a clock marked the time, each tick burrowing into the marrow of her bones as she waited for Theo to speak while she turned the pages of her book absently.

Theo finally broke the tense silence after nearly an hour.

"You're lucky to be alive."

Putting a slip of parchment into the book, Hermione looked up. The pain had worn off internally, but the skin still smarted when she moved too quickly, and she bit her lip to contain her hiss. "I know."

Theo stared at her, his brow drawn. "Why'd you do it?"

Hermione stared up at the dancing shadows cast by the lamplight. Why had she done it? There wasn't a simple truth to it. To protect the witches and wizards watching them? To keep Seamus from hurting someone else, from causing more destruction?

At the root of it, though, she knew it was something else.

"I hoped that would be it."

Theo stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and so she did, returning her gaze to the dust motes above her.

"It'd be easy." She shrugged, wincing a bit at the tug of her skin. "I did what he wanted; I followed his orders. I destroyed part of the remaining Order members." Hermione stared down at the book she clasped in her hands. "I would have fulfilled my duties."

Theo scoffed, crossing his arms. "That's a bunch of bullshite, and you know it."

Startled at the frank statement, Hermione snapped her head up to look at him. "What do you care? And don't presume that you know me. Just because we went to school together-"

"This is more than being schoolmates, Granger. The whole of bloody Hogwarts knew you; everyone knew what a determined swot you were. You don't give up when shite gets hard."

Hermione laughed, studying her fingernails. One of them had torn off at some point in the fray, and the jagged edge was sharp against her skin. "I gave up a long time ago, Nott. You'll remember your friends tearing my body apart night after night while you and Malfoy stood by."

Theo opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione continued.

"This? It's surviving. It's doing what I have to do to make it out of this alive."

Theo's face hardened, brows drawing down in angry slashes as he stared at her with indignation. "You're not trying to make it out of this alive. You're giving up." He shook his head, standing from the chair and shaking out his limbs from the hour he'd spent in her company. "You're not fighting for anything, Granger. You're a  _coward._ "

Her laughter startled even her, and Theo stared at her, arms hanging loosely at his side. "How am I to fight for anything when I have to obey the moment  _Malfoy_ commands me to do whatever he bloody well wants me to do?"

Theo shook his head, slow steps carrying him to the floor to ceiling windows. He stared out into the night, jaw working. Hermione dared him to speak, dared him to make some excuse, her heart racing in time with the adrenaline he'd spiked with their fight. His mouth opened and closed twice, and a thought shot through her.

Theo knew something.

"It's not as easy as it seems." Theo paused, and she saw the tight line of his mouth in his reflection on the glass. "Draco doesn't have a choice. None of us have a choice."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's a laugh."

Theo spun around, fists clenched at his side. "None of this is easy, Granger. I know you're used to pretty little lines and clean cut problems, but this is war, and war doesn't follow the rules."

She stared at him, her mind whirring. So she was supposed to just let it happen, let herself be a puppet for them to control? Words spilled out of her mouth, her anger a force inside her. "You don't get to tell me what I'm used to or what I want. You don't get to stand there and tell me, Nott, that your friend is doing what it takes to survive in a cushy mansion while he plays dress up behind a monster's robes and pulls on my strings like a marionette."

A throat cleared delicately, and both Hermione and Theo glared at the intruder. Narcissa stood below the chandelier, shadows cast across the delicate lines of her face. In her hands, she clutched a blood replenishing potion, the whites of her knuckles standing out in her tight grasp. "Ms. Granger, I'm afraid I'll need you to calm down so I can administer your potion."

Hermione's magic flared, threatening to shoot out of her in a wreckless wave. Gritting her teeth, she flopped back against the pillows, exhaustion flooding through her. Narcissa approached, her brow pinched and breath slipping out of her in a sigh, and the woman laid a hand on Hermione's forearm. Despite herself, Hermione felt scolded by the gentle pressure, heat rising to her cheeks in embarrassment, of all feelings to have return, when she realized that bright red stained the dressing gown she'd donned.

With careful hands, Narcissa turned Hermione to her side, shielding her exposed skin from Theo's prying eyes. Her wand traced over the split in Hermione's skin, and once again, the warmth of magic knit up the injury, and Hermione sighed. When Narcissa spoke, Hermione had to strain to hear her. "There's far more at play here than you know, my dear."

Hermione bristled at the pet name, that the woman would dare offer such familiarity with her when Hermione had nearly died in her home. The words were out of her mouth before Hermione could stop them. "Then why don't you  _bloody tell me?_ "

Narcissa worked quietly, wand hovering over Hermione as she ran yet another diagnostic spell over the young witch. As she observed, Narcissa passed the potion to Hermione, eyeing her as Hermione uncorked it and tipped the potion back, grimacing at the taste, like trying to gulp down a mud milkshake. When the potion was finally gone and Hermione stopped grimacing, Narcissa spoke.

"The spell that you are under is old, so old that it's not in any recorded history that I'm aware of."

Hermione froze, barely daring to breathe. Theo, too, had paused his restless, angry pacing near the window and turned to stare at Narcissa. The air in the room was thick with tension, and Hermione thought she could see the unspoken words crowding in the space around her.

Narcissa continued tending to Hermione's wounds, beckoning Theo closer to hold a wand aloft above her, lit with a low  _Lumos_. The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, and Hermione strained to hear her while she spoke, a furrow etching between the woman's brow.

A flick of her wand sent another wave of wand light over Hermione's abdomen. "It was used quite some time ago, by members of the Malfoy family when Muggles still mingled with magical-kind." With a sharp intake of breath, Narcissa paused, keen eyes staring at the shifting light dancing over Hermione.

In the silence that descended, Hermione's mind raced. A curse; so much she had figured, but the intricacies of it were beyond her. Something in it compelled her to follow Draco's command, but still foreign to her was the aspect that made her void of any emotion with which she was familiar. This apathy, the bottomless rage she felt in the space where so many other emotions used to exist, was beyond anything she'd experienced before.

Narcissa nodded, almost to herself, it seemed, and continued working, speaking rapidly below the quiet hum of magic that started to fill the room.

"I have no practical experience with it—they didn't train us in blood curses at Mungo's—but the Malfoys and Blacks dabbled in them." With a drawn brow, Narcissa leveled a stare at Hermione, her eyes clearer than the younger witch had ever seen from her. "It is better to simply give in for now. Someday soon…"

The loud crack of the door slamming open startled Narcissa backward, her robes billowing out behind her as Hermione's mind raced to keep up with the information that had been dumped into her lap. On the landing, Draco stood, his chest heaving with the breaths that gusted in and out of him.

"Mother, he—" Draco's voice cracked, his pale complexion waxen and covered in a sheen of sweat. His hands balled into fists and he spoke after a fortifying breath. "Mother, you've been summoned to stand before the Dark Lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel compelled to add an apology here; I didn't realize how bad I was at leaving these on cliffies until I started posting. I'm sorry!  
> Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13. Beta hearts to tofadeawayagain. You ladies rock.


	17. Reversed Wheel of Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note! Sorry this is a bit late; I forgot it was Tuesday because of Labor Day. On to the chapter! (more at the end)

**Chapter 17 -** **_Reversed Wheel of Fortune_ **

Draco’s laboured breaths echoed in Hermione’s chambers. Theo and Narcissa stood frozen on either side of him, and only Hermione’s sharp tone shook them out of their stupor. “What does he require her for?”

For a moment, Hermione thought Draco might snap at her, might command her to remember her place. A quick glance at his mother, unspoken words passing between them, had Draco wilting and inclining his head at Hermione. “He wishes to speak with her regarding the incident in the courtyard.”

“Ah.” It was a single word, but Hermione felt the weight of it as it passed between them. Acceptance. Reluctance. Regret. Fear. So many emotions were packed into the tiny syllable. With a final wave of her wand, Narcissa’s spells dissipated from the air above Hermione, and she stepped back. The absence of the magic left her body cold; Hermione reeled from the sense of loss, but she quickly buried the disorientation at the slight tremour in Narcissa’s hands as the woman lowered her wand to her side.

When had Hermione grown to care for the woman? And why? 

The silence was broken by the rough clearing of a throat. Theo spoke. “Mrs. Malfoy, I can escort you, if you would like.” 

Again, unspoken words passed between Narcissa and Draco, and Hermione didn’t miss the miniscule tightening of the corner’s of Draco’s eyes, the harsh sniff that he used to mask whatever emotion he was feeling. He flexed his wrist and cracked his neck, but he inclined his head. 

The others in the room moved into action simultaneously. Theo waved his wand, gathering the pieces of cloth they’d used to clean Hermione’s reopened wounds, and Narcissa murmured a quick sanitizing spell on her hands. Without a backward glance, they moved to the door.

Heart racing, sensing the end of a window of opportunity that she hadn’t realised had opened before her, Hermione scrambled off the bench. She opened her mouth to speak, a small sound of protest escaping, and the noise drew the others’ gaze. 

Swallowing the pounding of her throat, she peered frantically into Narcissa’s eyes. “You know something. Help me, please.” Logic told her that the woman held the key to everything that was happening to her and that if she only answered one more question, the whole situation would unravel. That once revealed, Hermione would find the answer before her.

But Hermione didn’t know which question to ask.

Sorry and understanding filled the premature aging lines that had sprung up on Narcissa’s face in the years since Hermione and Draco had attended Hogwarts, and she shook her head sadly. 

“In due time, dear.” The endearment rang deep within her, striking a chord that felt foundational to her very being. The woman stepped backward slowly, eyes pleading for her to understand.

In one last ditch attempt, Hermione spoke again. “Please, just a little more. _Please—_ ” 

 _Later._ The grey magic she’d felt at Voldemort’s revel brushed within her once again, and Hermione froze, eyes widening as the woman stepped backward. The warmth of this magic was comforting and calm, almost like…

Almost like a mother’s touch.

 _Embrace it._ The words washed over her as the door shut between them, and Hermione’s magic flared to life on her skin.   

Hermione was still reveling in the magic that danced over her arms, through her soul, and in the air around her when the screaming began.

Embrace it. It had been a command, strong and finite. It beckoned her to listen. But so too did the screaming echoing through the manor. 

A feminine scream, fraught with pain and fear, roared through the room. The china wash basin on her vanity shook, the rose water cooling in its depths swirling dangerously as magic accompanied it, desperate in its quest to be set free. 

It vibrated in her bones, setting her teeth on edge like the incessant scratching of Professor Binns’ chalk on the board had at Hogwarts, but this scream called to her on a visceral level.

Hermione was hurtling through the halls of the manor before she’d taken pause to consider the call. 

Bolting by painting after painting, sprinting past portraits of gasping blond-haired men, Hermione followed the command that seared in her bones.

_Help._

She didn’t pause to consider the demand or wonder why it had called for her of all people—the enemy trapped in their home and under their command. It sang in her soul, the desperation a physical lure lodged in her chest.

Magic trailed in her wake, black tendrils of it shooting out behind her and searing the walls with scorching trails. It crackled in her hair and still the screaming continued around her, growing higher and higher, the decibel raising hairs on her arms as she approached the dining room. The door cracked and split down the centre.

With a sweep of her hand, the doors crashed open, revealing Crabbe standing over Narcissa, sick glee twisting his face up in a cruel smile. He twisted his wand and sent another jade tendril of magic shooting into Narcissa’s body, splaying open a gash in her side. On either side of them, Theo and Draco thrashed against the wall, frozen in place and mouths moving furiously in silenced protests. 

Hermione’s wand shot into her hand, deadly calm descending over her as she stalked into the room, paying no heed to the monster lounging in his chair. Voldemort barely flickered a brow at her as Hermione bore down on the wizard tormenting Narcissa.

“Helping the Mudblood is prohibited, _blood-traitor_.” Crabbe twisted the wand again, the tendril worming into her side as blood seeped to the floor beneath her frail body. “You were told to stabilise, not fraternise.” 

Hermione snarled, and the sound echoed in the room, amplified by the roiling magic she wrapped around herself, coiled deep in her core. “Leave her alone!” 

Crabbe turned on clumsy feet, turning his crooked leer upon Hermione. “And what do you think you’re going to do about it _Mudblood_ ?” The taunt was hurled at her, but Hermione brushed it off, a word she’d heard too many times for it to hold meaning. “You’re not one of us; you’re just a _pet. Filth._ You’ll be disposed of once you’ve met your uses.” 

Hermione’s wand hand flexed, and she stared down Crabbe, her eyes following the way he swayed on the spot, the sweaty grasp in which he held his wand. He leered at her, before his eyes twitched to Voldemort’s seat, pathetic adoration shining in them. He stunk of desperation, his need for approval roiling off him in waves, and Hermione’s lip curled. “You’re pathetic. You’ve never been anything more than a follower.” 

The words settled between them, and fury lit in Crabbe’s eyes, his foot sliding forward a half step as he moved to retort, unbalancing him, and Hermione struck. 

Both her hands moved at once, her left wrapping Narcissa in a _Protego_ and her right sending a slashing curse at Crabbe’s ankle. Her magic flew out of her extended hand, an arrow aimed ruthlessly from a bow, and severed his Achilles tendon. He crashed to the ground with a groan of pain. Another slash sent coils of barbed wire twisting together as she coxed it around his limbs, anchoring itself between the pillars of the dining room and his wrists. The wire pulled him taut between the pillars as his wand clattered to the ground. 

Hermione prowled forward, the magic cracking in the air around her. “You are pathetic and disgusting. You are nothing more than a pawn in this game.” She halted before him, her breath coming in harsh exhales as he glared down at her. With as much precision as she could manage, fury roiling in her veins, Hermione coaxed a tendril of her magic to rise up between them, flickering across his face, and she carved a line into the skin below his left eye. 

“Touch her again and you’ll regret it.” She willed the magic deeper, and the cut split open, blood spilling down his cheek and mingling with the tears that seeped from his eyes. The stench of soiled pants filled the air, and Hermione sneered at him. 

“That’s enough.” The voice was quiet but unmistakable, the drawn out S slithering over her skin. Hermione turned to face Voldemort, her magic still holding Crabbe captive as she glared up at Voldemort. “You seem to forget who holds the power here, Ms. Granger.” 

Hermione’s magic wrapping around her in a protective embrace as the wizard rose from his chair upon the dais. He peered down at her, his eyes narrowed in introspection. When he spoke again, Hermione bristled. “You prove yourself an interesting witch. You have no trouble cutting down your brothers in arms—” the term grated over Hermione’s skin, an unneeded reminder of her place in this war “—but are willing to risk it all for the one witch whose life is inconsequential to your own.” 

Breaking his eye contact, Hermione forced her gaze to Narcissa’s slumped form. She couldn’t tell if the woman was conscious, but Hermione could see the sweat-soaked strands of Narcissa’s hair cascading out of the perfect twist it had been shortly before. Something like relief welled in her when she saw the woman’s chest rise, a minuscule inhalation. 

Voldemort waved his hand. The spells holding Theo and Draco in place cancelled, and Hermione watched as both men rushed to Narcissa, sliding their arms under her shoulders and righting her. As they quickly walked her to the doorway, Draco glanced over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met briefly and gratitude shone in them before Voldemort spoke.

“In light of recent events, there will be a... _shuffling_ of the Vehme.” Voldemort’s words stopped Theo and Draco in their tracks, both turning slowly enough to keep Narcissa’s slumped form propped between them. “Loyalty is of the utmost importance here, and it seems as though there are cracks in our foundation.” 

Draco’s mouth flattened into a thin line. Even from the distance between them, Hermione heard Theo’s curse. When she faced Voldemort again, the gleeful gleam in her eyes set a pit in her stomach, and she knew, before he spoke, before Theo and Draco objected angrily.

“All of you will go to the front lines. The Carrows will return to the Manor to assign you positions within their scout group, as they’ve proven themselves more than capable of executing  orders.” Voldemort resumed his seated position, staring down at them in insolent satisfaction. “Maybe there you will learn your position.”

Theo’s face was drained of all colour, and he cleared his throat before speaking. “My Lord, surely you don’t—”

“Silence.” The word was harsh, a cold gust of air accompanying it in the room. “You will do as you’re told, Nott, or you’ll end up dead.” A cruel smile curled his lips upward, and Voldemort laughed, the sound chilling Hermione far more than the rapidly cooled room had. “Death will be far kinder to you than I will be if you fail.”

Hermione squared her shoulders, stalking away from the laughing maniac in the chair, silently eyeing Nott to inquire after Narcissa. At his slight nod, Hermione strode through the doorway with Theo and Draco in her wake. 

Voldemort’s words echoed behind them. “Don’t disappoint me again.”

After they had returned Narcissa to Hermione’s quarters, her own too far to carry in such a state, and cushioned her beneath the downy blanket that had covered Hermione’s bed, Theo and Draco had stormed back out of the room and down the hall. 

Hermione spent half an hour tending to Narcissa’s wounds before the men returned, her movements robotic as she worked on the woman with none of the grace that Narcissa had displayed in her healing. Harsh determination lined Theo’s face, but Draco refused to look at her, instead crossing the room to sit beside his mother’s still form. His brow was drawn low on his forehead, and Hermione could see that he’d sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Malfoy’s hands wrung together as he gnawed absently at his lip.

Though he excelled at hiding his emotions under nearly every other circumstance, Hermione was morbidly pleased that his mother was a weak spot. She didn’t plan to exploit it, but… better to know her enemies. 

Tearing herself away from the scene before her, Hermione began to pack her beaded pouch that Lavender had found and returned to her, her constant companion during her time on the run. With an unceremonious jerk, Hermione upended it, momentos from Hogwarts spilling across the surface of her bed.

Broken quills, old scraps of parchment, and other odds and ends lay littered amongst books that she had packed when they first escaped Hogwarts. So much had been lost along the way, and the fragments of that life that lay before her might once have saddened her. With a pragmatic glance, however, Hermione began to pick through the contents, carelessly tossing aside the scraps and broken items that would serve no use.

At the bottom of the pile, several photos flickered with life. In one, Hermione threw her arms around Harry and Ron’s necks. The photo had been taken before they boarded the Hogwarts Express at the end of their third year. In another, Harry snuck up behind Ron at the Burrow and scared him, Ron’s silent scream and Hemione’s laughter evident in the flickering image. In the last one, the group of Hogwarts survivors sat piled within the last safe house, their fire roaring before them.

Hermione stared at the last photo, tracing the faces of those she’d grown to love. Her family, the only family she’d had left when this had started. And now, so many of them were gone. Seamus, Harry, the twins. Luna she presumed dead, the girl’s soft smile carrying a mournful tilt as though she knew what would befall her. All of their shoulders were heavy with the knowledge of the war ravaging outside their walls.

Shaking her head, Hermione tucked the photo within the cover of a potions book. 

These were the people she would kill for.

These were the people she’d avenge. And their photo would drive her.

Hermione shook her head and returned her attention to the contents of the bag before her. After several moments, the pile to discard had turned into a mound, and Hermione was left with very little to keep: a potions book that might prove useful on the battlefield, several half-filled ink pots and some poorly functioning quills, some herbs, several small stones for potions brewing, and other various potions ingredients. A small stack of books between the two piles stared back at her, and Hermione began to flip through them quickly to determine their usefulness, brows drawn at the unfamiliar topics.

One in particular, a leather-bound volume with deep gouges in its surface, kept catching her eye, and she picked it up slowly. She ran a hand over it, fingertips curling over the binding and—

“Granger.”

Hermione startled, dropping the book to the bed as she whirled around, Nott standing just behind her. “What?”

Theo grimaced, eyeing where Draco sat clasping his mother’s hand. “Draco managed to convince them to allow us to travel to the battlefield alone. We’re to meet the Carrows outside of Surrey within the hour.” 

Hermione nodded, resuming her packing. “And Narcissa?” 

“She’ll remain in the manor until she’s well enough to travel.” Theo paused, and Hermione recognised the delay for what it was: debating how much she should know. “Narcissa will join us at the camp once she’s healed; she and Draco have been demoted for insolence. They’re lucky to be alive.”

Hermione hummed, uncertain how to respond to the statement. When a tentative hand clasped over her shoulder, she spun again, jamming her wand tip under his chin. Theo stared back at her, his green eyes cool and reserved. “He’s grateful, you know.”

Hermione scoffed, coiling her magic back within her. “I don’t give a bloody fuck whether he’s grateful or if he never wants to see me again. I’m here because he was too bloody cowardly to kill me when he had a chance; if I make it out of this alive, he’ll regret giving me the chance.”

With a decisive swipe, Hermione stacked the remaining books and threw them into her beaded bag, jostling the potions she’d arranged neatly alongside them. 

The photo of Harry, Ron, and herself fluttered to the ground and beneath the bed, the edges torn from fretful fingers.

Draco Apparated them onto the edge of a camp somewhere on the outskirts of Surrey.

The air reeked of blood, and Hermione could hear the distant shouting of spells, bright flashes of crimson, emerald, and purple light flashing on the horizon. It was dark, but each blast of wand fire lit up the world around them as though it was daylight. 

White smoke curled in Hermione’s nose, and Theo gagged beside her when another flash of a spell illuminated what was burning. A pile of corpses had been set aflame before them, the embers licking at fallen witches and wizards. Ash danced on the wind before them, catching in Hermione’s curls and dusting her skin.

With a curse, Theo retched. The sound of his vomit splattering the ground beside him seemed to ground Hermione in a way that the scene before her hadn’t, and heavy certainty settled in the pit of her stomach, an anchor of dread locking her in place.

This was war. There would be death—likely their own—and Hermione was divorced from the fear that should have accompanied that thought. Gazing on the burning pile of fallen witches and wizards, she strained to see their faces, to put names to those who had given their lives for the wizarding world.

Would she know them? Were they people she’d sat in class with? Boys and girls with whom she’d shared a classroom or a desk? On cautious feet, she approached, watching the flames lick at the drab black robes of one of the corpses.

The smell was worse as she approached, a mix between the tangy metallic scent of blood boiling and the decomposing corpses of roadkill she remembered from childhood bike rides along the roadways with her father. She was determined, though, to pay her respects to the wizards before her.

A rock snapped behind her, but Hermione didn’t turn, didn’t react as magic prodded her walls, her Occlumency blocking his intrusion. When Draco spoke, his voice was barely audible over the cracking and popping of the flames.

“We’re due in the camp in a quarter hour, Granger.” 

She nodded, her gaze not leaving the fire.

Malfoy sighed, his frustration palpable, and the next time he spoke was an order, but no malice accompanied it. “We’re going to the camp. _Now_.” 

Gritting her teeth, Hermione turned her head, glaring at Malfoy. With one sweeping wave of her hand, her magic flared outward. The flames behind her flared brighter, and Hermione basked in the momentary shock and fear that flashed across Malfoy’s face as he watched the inferno blaze. Satisfied at his silence, she turned her gaze on the pyre.

Less than a moment later, the pile of bodies was reduced to a pile of ash, nothing left to indicate that anything more than barren land had been there to begin with. Another fierce sweep of her magic sent a powerful gust of wind over the clearing, scattering the ashes into the wind.

Hermione watched as the ashes floated into the distance, silently wishing the witches and wizards peace on their next journey.

When she could ignore the command no longer, Hermione swiveled on her heel and stalked toward the camp, Draco and Theo trudging heavily behind.

The earlier command beckoned her again, and Hermione summoned her magic around her like a solid, roiling shield.

_Embrace it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE shoutout goes out to Bookloverdream for drawing me my first ever fanart (dances in disblief). You should go check out all of her art on bookloverdream-blessedindeed on Tumblr. She's absolutely incredible, and I'm so grateful for her time and talent. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, also, to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13 for their wonderful alpha work and beta love to tofadeawayagain. You guys rock. Have a great week and see you next Tuesday!


	18. Two of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hiiii friends. I'm sorry this is a day late. I got hit with strep throat over the weekend and it knocked me out for a few days. I hope you all enjoy!

**Chapter 18 -** _**Two of Swords** _

The camp was filthy.

It was a ridiculous thing to notice, the way that odors seemed to blend into one another, but the stink of unwashed bodies, weeks of garbage, and human waste combined in a putrid scent that seemed to fester in the air and Hermione's nostrils. Her lip curled unbidden, and she had to stifle the gag that threatened to surface.

As she made her way through the camp, conversation died and heads ducked out of tents to watch her trek past. She didn't know where she was going, but she refused to let on as the onlookers glared at her with expressions between flat apathy and searing hatred.

If she had any alcohol, she'd make a game of it. One shot of firewhiskey for apathy, two for hatred.

She would have been drunk by the time she made it to the centre of the outpost.

Beyond cataloguing the faces of those she passed, Hermione made note of the layout of the camp. Smaller tents peppered the outer perimeter, miniscule campfires giving off more smoke than flame or light. Some of them had small game burning over the fires, while others merely had foraged tins boiling miserably over the flames.

Further in were larger tents from which hints of song and drunken shouting wafted out on the breeze. It was a stark reminder of the difference between the Death Eaters and the motley group she'd been with before Harry's death. That they could loudly proclaim their presence with drunken merriment and warm, glowing hearths stoked the bitterness in her. She quelled the urge to level the camp with a wave of surging magic and continued forward.

Her steps seemed to bring a deathly silence with them. Death Eaters left their tents to follow her approach. The weight of their gaze was oppressive, but it was a bitter reminder that her goal was to survive.

She'd take as many of them down with her as she could in the end.

A lanky figure dipped out of the tent that sat in the middle of the circle, the one Hermione assumed was the centre of the operations. Their drunken swaying was belied only by the heavy boots that kept them upright, and Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench of alcohol that she could smell even from the distance. When they spun around to acknowledge the newcomers, Hermione slowed to a stop just beyond the clearing.

Fenrir Greyback.

She hadn't seen him since her days in the Malfoys' cellar, but he looked the same – unwashed hair and ill-fitting clothes, a body that was riddled in scarring and filth. He hadn't bothered to bathe back then so it didn't surprise her that he appeared as filthy as before.

A twisted grin lit up his features as he studied Theo and Draco over her shoulder. Even without seeing their faces, Hermione could feel the apprehension roiling off of their still frames, and she twisted her wrist, as if she were fidgeting under the unwelcome attention. When the cool length of the ashwood wand slid into her fingertips, she drew in a steadying breath.

Greyback licked his lips salaciously. "Malfoy,  _my boy_." The words were a filthy caress, a mockery of the warmth that Narcissa spoke to Malfoy with.

The sudden appearance of Nott at her elbow struck her. His stance was almost protective, though why he would care what happened to her was beyond Hermione.

"Looks like you've fallen from grace." A wolfish smile split Greyback's face wide, and when his gaze landed on her he licked his chops. Hermione refused to allow him even a crack in her demeanor; she stared forward with willful insolence as hatred simmered in her core.

"So it seems." Draco's drawl was bored, and Hermione glanced over her shoulder to find him standing just behind Nott, hands tucked casually behind his back as he surveyed the camp. "It also appears as though your poor taste does not end in those poor excuses for trousers."

Greyback's lip curled in a snarl, and a low murmur ran through the onlookers. "Bold of you to taunt someone when the Dark Lord's thrown you out on your arse, Malfoy." All pretenses of friendliness had vanished from the man's voice, and he advanced with predatory stealth. When he stopped just before Hermione and lifted his wand in a flash, Theo swore next to her and quickly stepped into her side.

"Touchy,  _touchy_ , Mr. Nott. What  _would_ your father say for taking up for this little pet of yours?" Greyback ran the tip of his wand through Hermione's hair as he stared down at her. Despite the deep well of anger threatening to overflow, she stood her ground, gritting her teeth as he stared down at her.

"Such a pretty one, despite the ill breeding." He barked a laugh and the wizards still ringing the outside of the clearing echoed it. "Look at me, talking about breeding. And yet…" His wand clattered to the ground at her feet and his filthy, rough fingers wrapped around her throat, his palm pressing in a warning against her windpipe. "There's a world of difference between a wolf like me and  _trash_  like this."

Hermione swallowed thickly against his hand, the well of her magic sparking along her veins and into her fingertips as she flexed them on the ashwood. It would be  _so easy_ to break him, to direct the power that threatened to overwhelm her into one death blow that would leave the camp in wreckage. But her gaze flickered to the low-lying clouds, the glimpse of the moon through their craggy billows that stopped her. The same part of her that fixated on the voice that had commanded her to embrace it, that had struck something in her very core, stayed her hand. Instead, she watched.

Hazarding a deep breath, she spoke around the hand clamped tightly around her throat. "The full moon is close. Are you looking forward to your chains and collar?"

His eyes held a manic sheen to them as he leaned in and inhaled her scent. Beneath the layer of sweat and grime coating his body, Hermione could see the rapidly fluttering beat of his pulse. His fingertips trembled against her neck, and her suspicions were confirmed."

It was close to the full moon; he would transition soon without Wolfsbane. And she knew for a fact that she had the ingredients packed away within her bag.

With another thick swallow, she spoke. "I can help you."

Stillness settled over the rest of the camp, but Theo's hand twitched, coiling tighter around his wand. Sound tunneled around her to the ragged laugh that Greyback forced out, but she didn't miss the tightening around his eyes, the desperation that bled from him like the stench he wore.

The man embraced the wolf within, but Hermione knew he didn't like to let it have control.

Ever so slowly, his fingers peeled from her skin, though she swore she could still feel the film his filthy fingers left behind, branding her with the promise she'd spoken.

"I don't need your help." Spittle rained over her with the words, but Hermione heard the lie in them. So, too, did Nott, because he laughed hollowly. The tremour in Greyback's hands contradicted the words as he stooped to pick up his wand, but he met her eyes when he straightened. "No one has brewed Wolfsbane for months—no one can help me."

Hermione didn't feel any sympathy for the man, didn't care whether he was forced to give into the wolf one way or the other, but she knew an opportunity when she saw one. "I have enough ingredients to brew Wolfsbane for the next six months, and I can know where to get more." She refused to break his gaze and allow him to see through the lie. A quick mental catalogue proved that she had only enough to get him through one, maybe two cycles, but it would be enough to establish some semblance of trust.

Before she shattered it completely.

But perhaps… he needed a little bit of convincing. A crook of her pinky prodded her magic, and it slowly awakened around her.

A clap of thunder rolled through the camp, satisfaction unfurling in her as she cocked her head and thunder rolled again, deeper and closer, and the crowd dissipated around them. The werewolf studied the clouds rolling in on the camp, a crooked slump to his shoulders even as he turned to face her, disbelief etched in the tired hollow of his eyes.

With a shake of his shoulders, he jerked his head toward a line of evergreens just visible on the far side of the camp. "Your tent is near the woods." When he finally glanced between her, Nott, and Malfoy, any semblance of the trembling man she'd held in the palm of her hands moments before was gone. "I take it you don't need me to hold your hands." His gruff voice faded into the darkness as he turned on his heel and strode into the centre tent.

Hermione didn't wait for either Malfoy or Nott before she strode in the direction that Greyback had indicated, her thoughts racing. If she got him the potion, she'd enable him to control his turns and maintain his humanity for the duration of it. Dangerous, particularly for those he had a grudge against because under the potion's effects during the full moon he could target those he'd identified as threats. But it was an alliance she could manipulate just  _so_ when she needed it.

Sowing the seeds of the Vehme's undoing would be risky, but she'd never been one to shy away from a challenge.

Theo slipped in front of her, throwing the flaps of the tent open with a grandeur far misplaced from the battlefield. It distantly reminded her of the Quidditch World Cup her fourth year, watching Harry and Ron race through the tent with reckless abandon as celebration rang out around her.

How quickly the joy had ended then. She shoved the memories down again.

She hadn't thought it possible, but this tent was in much worse disrepair than the one she'd shared with the boys at the World Cup. Sections of the ceiling sagged low enough that she'd have to bend over to pass beneath them, and the musty odor of poorly maintained polyester blanketed the air. Mismatched furniture dotted the entryway, and she could see three cots lined haphazardly along the back wall.

Charming.

Soon, though, the tent flaps were flung aside again, and a sharp shove in the back sent her sprawling to the floor. Suddenly Hermione found herself wrenched over, knees pinning her down as a tight hand locked her wrists together over her head.

"You're going to get yourself killed." Nameless emotion turned Draco's eyes, a deep gunmetal grey that she hadn't seen on him before.

Hermione stared back resolutely, contempt dripping from her words, every last bit of fight she had for the day thrown into them before she could retire to whatever poorly made cot they'd provided her. "You think I'm not intimately familiar with what it feels like to embrace the inevitability of death?" She leaned up into his space, glaring up at him. "I find it rather convenient that you continue to forget who was broken down and mangled in your cellar mere weeks ago, Malfoy."

"That's—"

"–different?" Hermione scoffed, the exhale ruffling Malfoy's unkempt hair. "Rich. You weren't the one waking up night after night in the dark, in a puddle of your own piss, not knowing whether you'd ever live to see the light of day again." She glared up at him, the fight starting to go out of her as she said, "I get to choose what happens to me now. Not you, not Theo.  _Me._ And if it turns the tide of this war..."

Hermione froze, the words dangerously close to the truth of why she'd failed to fight, why she went along with their training, this gods-forsaken assignment.

Malfoy's throat worked up and down around the words he tried to speak. "Granger, you don't underst—"

Her razor-thin hold on her magic snapped, and a wave of it lashed outward, invisible but powerful, knocking Malfoy backward into the threadbare floor. "I understand my place in this, Malfoy. I'm not useful to you as anything more than a weapon—and I'm shocked that I was allowed to be even that much."

Theo watched from the doorway, and Hermione stared him down, daring him to say anything, to come to Malfoy's defense. When he simply pursed his lips and looked down at the floor with a furrow between his eyes, she laughed hollowly. "I have no illusions about my place in any of this —once I've lost my purpose, he'll kill me." With a slash of her hand, her magic settled and Malfoy slumped to the ground.

She slowly crossed the room, settling her beaded bag onto her cot, adorned with a single worn sheet. There were no pillows to be found in the tent, so she angrily snagged a discarded pair of trousers and muttered a quick spell, transfiguring it into a lumpy pillow in her frustration. Plopping down on the bed, she slowly unlaced the boots, reveling in the silence of the room until her companions began their own preparations.

The words came back to her as she removed her boots, and she spoke aloud, no longer caring who heard.

"And if they don't kill me first…" She looked up, meeting Nott's mossy gaze through the low lighting. "I'll make them wish they had."

* * *

Theodore Nott was an enigma to her. He'd never been unkind to her at Hogwarts, but neither had he been welcoming. He'd kept his distance from most wizards in Hogwarts, choosing instead to associate with Malfoy and the other pure-bloods. It wasn't until Hermione had been dredged up from the cellars of the manor that he'd even deigned to acknowledge her presence.

Now, though, she could feel his watchful eye on her more often than not, seeming to follow her movements with careful observation that rivaled even her own. Something about the way he studied her out of the corner of his mossy green eyes made her keenly aware of just how dangerous he could be if he wanted to.

For the life of her, she couldn't figure out what had tipped him in her favour, and she still wasn't entirely sure whether his intentions were good or if he was another test Voldemort had thrown in her path.

"We're going to be scouting," Draco announced as he ducked back into the tent the next morning. As soon as the sun had risen, he had been summoned to Greyback's tent, alone. Hermione and Nott had sat in silence as the sun had risen higher. Now, though, Nott's sharp gaze had fallen on Malfoy, and he leaned forward in the threadbare chair he'd chosen to occupy that morning. His elbows rested on his knees in contemplation, and Hermione would have given every last sickle she could scrounge up to know where he fit in the equation—what secrets he held locked away.

"We'll need a signal." Nott's voice was low, and he eyed them both over the rim of the chipped mug he had found in one of the crumbling cabinets and sipped from all morning.

Hermione nodded her silent agreement, weighing the next words she spoke. What was too much to give away? "The Order used sparks—like in the Triwizard Tournament. Send up a trail of green sparks for the all clear, red to call for help." She chewed on her lip, eyeing Malfoy for a moment. "Innocuous enough not to rouse suspicion, but clear enough that we'll know if danger befalls one of us."

Nott nodded along with her, but Malfoy hummed his discontent. "Is that a good idea, to use signals that could potentially draw us attention we aren't prepared for?"

With a sigh, Hermione crossed the tent, drew back the flaps, and gestured to the fire in the centre of the camp, where low-ranking Death Eaters already sat about with tankards of ale. "They'll know we're here; it's not likely that we'll have the element of surprise. And these—" she swept a hand over her crimson robes "—don't help matters any." When the silence dragged out between them, she looked over her shoulder at them. "We have orders; we either follow them or die."

Grim acceptance passed over Nott's face, and Malfoy refused to meet her gaze. After a moment, Theo spoke. "Then it's decided. Sparks it is."

With a nod, Hermione ducked out of the tent to tend their tiny fire, Draco's quiet curse following her out into the early morning.

* * *

The next week passed in a horribly monotonous crawl. Each morning, Theo, Hermione, and Draco were roused from their beds before the sun rose and sent to some Merlin-forsaken village off the beaten path in England.

The witches and wizards in the villages gave them a wide berth—wearing their crimson cloaks through the town squares had an alienating effect on even those who supported the Vehme and Voldemort. Doors slammed in their wake, and Hermione could feel stares burning holes in their backs as they walked.

Beside her, Theo swept his wand over the rubble, a white haze of light scanning for any traps that had been laid by the Order. Draco sped on in front of them, as was his routine since they'd begun scouting, and Hermione paused in the middle of the street, squinting in the sunshine and watching his white-blond hair bob over another destroyed building and disappear.

"He didn't have a choice, you know?" Nott's voice was loud in her ear. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he'd paused his search and followed her gaze. "This life… it's not what he wanted." When Hermione didn't respond, he sighed, resuming his scanning. "It's not the life he wanted for any of us." His gaze was sharp when he looked back at her. "Least of all you."

His words hung in the air between them, and try as she might, Hermione couldn't decipher what he meant. The Malfoy she had known had tormented her for years, had stood by when she was tortured in his home, and Nott was trying to tell her that Malfoy didn't want exactly what had happened to to occur? Her fate had literally been a creation of his own doing. He ordered her torture. He held her in a cage in his cellar. He might have not been the ring leader to this madness, but he wasn't a bloody foot soldier either.

After a moment, Nott resumed his trek through the rubble. "There's more going on here than you know, Granger."

"What kind of bullshit is that, Nott?" Hermione stormed forward, kicking rocks out of her path as she went. She didn't bother to sweep her wand over the ground, didn't care to watch where she was going as long as it took her away from him for the moment. When his hand clasped over her shoulder, she spun to face him.

She spat words in his face, knowing that the accusations were unfair but not pausing in her tirade. "You swing your loyalties back and forth more often than the pendulum in the Great Hall tells the minutes. Either tell me why I should excuse Malfoy's hesitation or give me an explanation beyond some cryptic bullshite worthy of Albus Dumbledore."

Nott flinched, his mouth opening and closing on one excuse or another, but he thought better of it and turned away from her with a sigh while he raked his hand through his hair. "I can't tell you any more than what I've already said—hell, even that could end up with both of us dead."

Hermione scoffed, whirling to continue scanning the area, but Nott's hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. His wand slashed downward in a shield as a jet of black magic arced through the air toward them. An unnatural heat hurtled over the shield, enveloping them for a moment before it dissipated and quiet once more resumed.

Hermione released a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding before she wrenched her arm out of Theo's grasp.

"Watch your step, Granger." Nott's voice was gruff, though with fear or adrenaline Hermione couldn't discern. "People out here… they want us all dead, regardless of whose cloaks we wear." He paused, his gaze scanning her face. "And I hope by now that you'll have realised that you can trust me." With a sharp nod, Nott shouldered past her, his wand once more scanning the ground before them.

With a sour twist to her lips and a cock of her head, Hermione studied Nott's back as he cleared more ground, scanning the swath of ground that Malfoy had left for them. Just how much did he know? And what wasn't he telling her?

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him why he was telling her any of this when his life was in just as much danger as hers when a dull roaring sound echoed through the streets of the village and the cobbles rocked beneath them.

Ahead of her and Theo, a sharp cry reverberated through the air, and, as they whipped their heads toward it, a shower of red sparks lit the sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should just end every chapter with a cliffy apology. There's just so much happening and if I don't cut in certain points it'll be a 10K chapter (which I'm sure you won't complain about lol). I'll see you guys next Tuesday, and I promise to be on time. The next chapter is going to beta tomorrow lol
> 
> Alpha love: LadyKenz347 & msmerlin13  
> Beta Babe: tofadeawayagain


	19. Seven of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a quick note to say thank you all so much for reading along! This fic reached 300 followers on FFN with the last update, and I'm really grateful for each of you who read and especially grateful for those of you who review week after week. You guys make my day with your kind words!

**Chapter 19 -** **_Seven of Swords_**

The ground shifted beside Hermione, and a large crater opened just beyond Theo. Hermione’s eyes widened infinitesimally as he stepped backward, trying to find purchase on the crumbling ground, but his foot slipped on the rocked edge of the crater, and he tipped backward into the gaping chasm. 

Before she could react, a brilliant flash of white light emerged from the gaping hole, and Theo’s wand clattered to the ledge, his hands slowly emerging over the crater’s lip as he pulled himself out of the chasm. As the ground beneath her calmed, Hermione stalked forward, offering Nott a hand as he grunted and strained to pull himself upright. 

When he was standing on even ground before her and dusting his pants off, Hermione glanced around. “So much for being careful, huh?” 

Theo snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, Granger, now’s a great time to get smart with me.” After taking a quick inventory of himself, his eyes narrowed, eyeing the gaping hole that had opened between them and where Hermione assumed the sparks from Draco had come. Nott shook his head, studying the way the sinkhole extended from building to building. 

After a moment, Hermione spoke. “We’ll have to go around.” 

“Or Apparate,” Theo added, but he quickly shook his head. “No good. If it’s a trap—”

“They might expect us to Apparate in. The easy route,” Hermione agreed. She glanced around the courtyard, peering between buildings. They seemed to adjoin, but one in particular caught her attention. To her left, between the abandoned building of an old cobbler and an odds and ends shop, Hermione saw movement. Silver light flickered down the alley, the tell-tale shimmering of a familiar Patronus, and Hermione vaulted after it, leaving Theo protesting in her wake.

With sharp breaths, Hermione tore down the alley, her footsteps echoing between the brick walls and the cobbles. She skidded to a halt where the alley opened into a small clearing, her breath wheezing out of her, loud in her ears.

It was gone. 

The Patronus was nowhere to be seen. Hermione whipped around, desperately searching for any sign of the raven Patronus she’d thought long gone. 

Instead, she was greeted by Theo’s ire as he crashed into the clearing. “What the hell, Granger? You can’t just take off like that!” The wizard continued his rant, spouting off about what he’d do if she wound up dead and that it would be no one’s fault but her own. 

Hermione didn’t listen to him though, instead studying the way the end of the alley seemed to shimmer unnaturally. Something about the strange glimmer of it drew her in, and Hermione stalked forward, wand aloft. 

“Granger, what are you—Merlin, Granger, didn’t you listen to a word I said?” Theo strode after her, his hand coming to rest on her elbow, and he nearly pulled her backward when she waved her wand through the air and a doorway appeared before them in a brick wall that hadn’t been there moments before. “ _ Oh. _ ” 

They both studied the doorway for a moment, neither willing to step forward or knock. Their hesitation must have been apparent though, because within the building, a loud click sounded, the door handle turned, and the door opened inward with the protesting creak of unoiled hinges.

“Maybe we ought to…” Theo studied the dark within the doorway with a skeptical frown. “Draco needs us, Granger.” 

But instinct tugged her forward, summoning a  _ Protego _ as she went, and Theo followed her into the concealed building with a heavy sigh

As soon as Theo crossed the threshold, the door swung shut behind them, blanketing them in darkness for a moment before another wand flared to life in the corner.

“Hermione?” 

The voice was high and clear, a bell in the darkness, and when the lit wand before her lowered, Luna Lovegood stood before her, messy blond ringlets falling to her elbows and clad in the same long skirt and blouse in which Hermione had last seen her. 

“Luna?” 

A wide, serene smile softened the other girls’ face as she waved her wand and lamps around the room lit. “I thought that was you; the nargles rarely lie, annoying though they are.” 

“It helps that I told you they were here, Lovegood.” The bored voice drawled from the corner of the room, Malfoy rising from his defensive crouch beside an overstuffed chair piled high with copies of  _ The Daily Prophet.  _ “Now that we’re all here, can we get on with this?”

Hermione watched the exchange with jaw agape, trying to process what she was seeing. The last time she’d seen Luna, the girl was being dragged away by the Carrow twins, and Hermione had assumed… 

She’d assumed the worst, that she’d never see her friend again. 

Herminone crossed the room and swept her friend into a hug, squeezing the girl to ensure that she wasn’t a figment of her imagination. When Luna’s tinkling laugh echoed in her ear, Hermione leaned back, gripping the girl’s shoulders and studying her closely. “Where have you been? What happened to you?”

Luna smiled up at Hermione, but she didn’t miss the haunted look in the blonde’s gaze, the way her eyes flitted to the door and back to Hermione. “It turns out that the Carrows didn’t much like idle chatter, nor do they like learning about magical creatures.” Luna’s cavalier shrug jarred a laugh loose, and Hermione was startled to find the sound coming from her throat.

It felt foreign. She hadn’t laughed in so long that she’d forgotten what it felt like. It bubbled up in her stomach and scraped across her throat in a strange scratch, the sound squeaky and deep all at once. Luna’s smile widened, giving no indication that she thought the reaction strange, and she wrapped her too-thin arms around Hermione.

The joy she’d felt at seeing her friend quickly leached back behind the wall of magic, and flat apathy returned. It was with robotic instinct that her arms slipped awkwardly around Luna again, the shock of the moment having worn off, and Hermione patted the other girl’s back twice before stepping backward with a clearing of her throat. Magic or not, she’d never been much of a hugger, and Luna respected her need for space.

After a beat of silence, during which Hermione took inventory of the new scars littering Luna’s face and arms, the other girl spoke. “I’m afraid I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?” When Hermione didn’t respond other than to peer back at the girl with slanted brows, Luna nodded silently as her gaze traced the air around Hermione’s head. “Your aura… it’s different. Darker.” 

As if summoned, Hermione’s newfound magic bubbled beneath the surface, and understanding flickered in Luna’s gaze as she looked at first Draco and then Theo. At Draco’s slight nod, Luna beckoned Hermione forward. “How about a nice cuppa?” Her hand rested lightly on Theo’s forearm, and her whispered “Hello, Theodore” tinkled over Hermione’s ears.

Luna turned from Hermione and crossed the room to a singular bookcase covered in various trinkets, some of which Hermione could place and many others she could not. When the other witch waved her wand before the shelves, Hermione was unsurprised to see them disappear and another doorway to appear in its place. 

Beyond the doorway was another brick passageway, lined with lit torches, and Hermione had the distinct impression that stepping through into the damp tunnel would take her far from where she, Nott, and Malfoy had patrolled mere minutes before. But the magic within her hummed in appreciation of the depths within, so she strode onward.

None of them spoke as Luna led them through a labyrinth of twists and turns, shrouded in darkness save for the dim ambient light provided by the torches on the wall. Turn after turn, Hermione noted the way back. Left at the crack that looked like a tree. Right at the large red rock. Forward at the fork marked by a singular torch. Each one became a point in a map, mentally filed away should she need to escape.

Despite the instinct in her that screamed at her to find an out so she wouldn’t end up prisoner in another’s cellar, a knot twisted in her stomach. Hermione tried not to think about how much of a monster plotting an escape from her friend made her.

Finally, Luna stopped before another oak door, this one engraved with a raven burned into its surface. Offering a rhythmic knock, the door swung swiftly inward and Luna led them inside, Hermione following purposefully afterward. Her gaze lifted, falling on the graceful figure carved into the wood. Her heartbeat faltered, sickening anticipation climbing up her throat as Theo and Draco crashed into her back. Their cries of protest were drowned out, however, by the  _ whooshing _ of adrenaline in her ears. 

She knew that shape. The way the wings folded gracefully against the creature’s chest, its beak turned proudly upward, and its eyes watching sharply.

It was the Patronus that she’d come to rely on during the run. 

“I think it’s about time you were given some answers, Miss Granger.”

The voice was feminine and aristocratic, confident in its authority but still demure enough that Hermione didn’t recoil from it. Instead, the magic she’d come to rely on so heavily over the past few weeks flared to life, reaching for the voice, for the woman it belonged to. And suddenly, everything fell into place.

Narcissa Malfoy reclined on a chaise lounge, her fingers wrapped delicately around a cracked china teacup. The delicate floral design on it belied the chip in its rim, the gold flaked off around it, but it seemed to be an apt metaphor for the woman who watched them crowd in the doorway. Narcissa Malfoy, lady of the manor, mother and wife to a Death Eater, a force to be reckoned with.

Something instinctual told Hermione that this was a side of Narcissa Malfoy she had not yet encountered. 

With a slight incline of her head, Hermione followed Luna into the room, watching Narcissa from the corner of her eye as Luna prepared a cup of tea for her as well. Hermione took it when offered, but she didn’t dare take a sip. 

Pragmatics told her that she shouldn’t trust a cup she didn’t prepare, even if from a friend.

This was, after all, war. 

With a careful eye, she watched as the others in the room sipped from their tea in silence, tension thick in the air. After a few moments, Theo spoke. “You know, a little warning might be nice next time, considering I thought we were walking into a trap.” He sent a wilting glare at Malfoy, who shrugged in response, and continued. “If we’re to do this now, we need to make it quick. They’ll notice if we’re gone for too long.” 

Luna nodded but looked at Hermione. “It’s safe, you know—to drink the tea. I wouldn’t poison you. Besides—” Before Hermione could react, Luna had slipped the drink out of her hand and downed a large gulp. “—why would I poison myself?”

Mouth only slightly agape, Hermione accepted the teacup back from Luna and took a tentative sip. After a beat, she spoke. “Would anyone care to tell me what in Merlin’s name is going on here?”

Narcissa cleared her throat delicately and all eyes landed on the woman. “I’m afraid much of this is my doing.” The elder witch leaned forward and placed her teacup on a discarded stack of books in front of the chaise lounge, and Hermione’s gaze caught the tremour of the woman’s fingertips. It hadn’t been there before Crabbe tortured her, and Hermione felt a surge of anger well inside her on the woman’s behalf. Curse damage left certain tells, and Hermione was not unfamiliar with that one.

“Mother, are you—” Draco stepped forward out of the shadows, the first words he’d spoken within the chamber filling the air between them with a tone entirely divorced from the hard-edged woman Hermione had come to know. 

Narcissa waved a hand, brushing her son off. “Not now, my dragon.” The woman’s gaze softened as it caressed her son’s features. “We haven’t the time.” 

With a somber nod, Malfoy resumed his place in the shadows.

“Tell me, Miss Granger; what do you know of blood curses?” 

Hermione held the woman’s gaze, captivated by the wealth of knowledge she could see swimming just beneath the surface of her guarded gaze. After a moment, Hermione spoke. “Not much. Professor Lupin touched on them briefly in third year, but—”

“But nothing of substance. I was afraid of that.” Narcissa pursed her lips, apparently unsurprised by her gap in knowledge. “Well, the abridged version, for time’s sake, then.” Narcissa straightened on her seat, folding her hands on her lap and tucking her legs beneath its edge, the picture of a proper pure-blood wife. “Blood curses have been of particular proclivity for pure-bloods for centuries.” The woman smiled to herself at a private joke. “These vary, often by family.”

Hermione nodded. Familial magic was not a foreign concept to her. “I understand that magic tends to be honed and passed down through particular lineages, but what does this have to do with me?”

Narcissa studied her, keen eyes not missing the way Hermione’s hand tightened on the wand she still clutched. “Many of these magical rites were not written down, but instead passed on to the new generation through word of mouth, and thus they evolved with each century and each wizard or witch who used them.” Narcissa took a delicate sip of her tea, punctuating the silence with a sniff. “None were so diligent about this as the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and most importantly for this discussion, the Black and Malfoy families.” 

Hermione nodded, gaze flicking to Malfoy as his eyes followed his mother’s movements, the way his gaze tightened at the trembling in her hands.

Narcissa continued. “This magic is dark, dangerous, and often used to destroy and control. Though…” She paused, eyeing Hermione. “Not always.” Narcissa settled forward, her elbows coming to rest on her knees in the most unladylike pose Hermione had ever seen on the other woman. “What do you know of the women of the Black family?”

Hermione’s head whirled, trying to process the sudden change in subject.  _ The Black women?  _ As quickly as she could, Hermione flipped through the mental catalogue of information she’d stowed away from all the books she’d read about the magical world and their self-entitled elites. Distantly, a flitting thought pulled at her subconscious until she remembered something Andromeda had said in passing at an Order meeting. “Black women are rumoured to be Seers.” 

Narcissa’s nose wrinkled, but she nodded all the same. “Such a common term, Seers, but yes, Black women have been blessed—or  _ cursed _ —with the Sight.” 

Theo shifted nervously beside Hermione, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Narcissa…” 

A sharp glare at the man silenced him. “A few more moments, Theodore.” Narcissa, for her part, did seem to understand the urgency of the time, so she continued. “In my sixth year, I learned a secret so grave that I have only ever told two people: my son and Lady Nott. I was shown the future… two different futures. One in which the world would go to ruin, and another in which the world would be razed and rebuilt… with a powerful witch at the helm.”

Hermione’s brow wrinkled, processing what Narcissa had said and asked again, “What does this have to do with me?”

A delicate laugh tinkled through the room, accompanied by a hearty sigh from Draco in the corner, his face shrouded in shadows. “Everything, my dear. Because you… you are that witch.”

A lead weight settled in Hermione’s chest, and heat seemed to race up her limbs as her magic unfurled within her. “Me?”

Beside her, Theo’s wand illuminated red, a faint whine emitting from it. “Shite, we’ve got to go. Greyback is sending out the second scout team soon, and if we’re not back—” 

“Wait!” Hermione shot upright, tendrils of magic running down her arms in inky black desperation. “We can’t leave; I haven’t  _ learned  _ anything; this doesn’t  _ mean  _ anything.” 

Narcissa pursed her lips together again. “All in due time, dear. But for now…” A grey tendril of magic unfurled within Hermione and the voice, the one she’d come to think of as her guide in this dark, echoed through her, the source undeniable this time, the aristocratic lilt emerging from the concealing charms placed on it and ringing in Hermione’s ears. Crisp and firm, Narcissa’s words once more came to her.  

_ Rest. And prepare yourself. _

Narcissa gazed at Hermione, her lips flattening into a thin line.  _ A storm is coming. _

Before them, Narcissa snapped her fingers and Disapparated. Her Patronus flickered before them, her last words issuing from its open maw. “There are eyes everywhere.” That same, ringing reminder that had plagued Hermione for weeks. The words echoed around the cavern, sending the sharp claws of foreboding crawling up Hermione’s spine.

With a sympathetic smile, Luna shrugged and Disapparated with a pop. The teacup she’d been drinking from clattered on the windowsill, the sudden rush of wind threatening to tip it over.

And they were alone. 

A beat passed as Draco and Theo stared at the floor, Theo with understanding dawning in his eyes and Draco with angry resignation in his. And then Theo’s wand glowed crimson again, and he swore, quickly scrambling for the door and grabbing Hermione around the wrist. 

“Malfoy, I don’t know how you got in here, but find your way out. They weren’t supposed to send the next scouting group out for an hour; Greyback probably felt the magic or saw your sparks and sent them out early.” Theo’s eyes were panicked, a deep furrow in his brow as he backed down the hallway and dragged Hermione with him. “Get back to the site you sent the sparks up from and do something to make it convincing.” 

Malfoy responded with a curt nod and turned on his heel, racing down a path that was concealed in the wall of the cavern. 

Theo dragged them back down the corridor they’d entered from, Hermione stumbling over her feet in the dark, neither of them having bothered with a  _ Lumos _ as they charged through the space. Thought after thought echoed through her mind.

Narcissa, a Seer. Two paths. Hermione at the helm of change. And then…

All of this was orchestrated.

The curse. The torture. The pain.

And if what Narcissa said was true… she’d been nothing more than a pawn since long before she was born. 

As Theo yanked her around another corner, Hermione wrenched her arm free, halting in the tunnel as first anger, then despair and a hundred other emotions slammed into her.

This whole time, she’d thought it had been happenstance, that she had been hit by the spell in the fray of the battle, a serendipitous target that could be used to break the Order once caught. And some foolish part of her had thought…

Theo whipped around, staring at her and pleading falling from his lips as he motioned for her to move because another patrol was coming.

Some foolish part of her had thought that just maybe Theo was an ally in her resistance, his cryptic words some sort of breadcrumb trail to gain her trust. But Narcissa had planned it all.

Magic coiled down her arms, snaking in great, black tendrils over her clenched fists as a sea of emotions washed over her, everything she’d kept locked away for the last few months smashing through the barrier in her mind as betrayal coloured her perception.

“Hermione, I’ll explain everything when it’s safe, but we have to get back out there. If they—” Theo paused, the glow of his wand intensifying in the dark cavern. “We’re already on thin ice—they might very well kill us and if they find out about Narcissa…”

Hermione considered him. It would be easy to end it all now; a twist of her wrist would summon his wand held loosely in his hand. She could either kill him or leave him for the Death Eaters to find and punish as they saw fit.

But the measures of kindness he’d shown her flashed through her mind, the times he’d comforted her, treated her like a real human and not like the weapon they’d all tried to make her into. And though she had been fashioned into a weapon and she  _ did  _ want to make them pay… Theo had somehow become her friend. The emotions raging through her begged her to give him a small measure of kindness in return, and the magic coiling around her slowly receded. 

“When we’re out of here, you owe me an explanation.” Her words were sharp, and Theo winced at the anger evident in them.

“Done.” A curt nod, and Theo turned again, rushing down the corridor and to the door through which they’d entered. 

When they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Hermione squinted and Theo frantically waved her forward. Shouts from Death Eaters could be heard from the other side of the buildings, and Theo turned back to her with wide, wary eyes.

“Granger, we need—” 

Her face tightened, lips turning down in a grimace as she turned, finishing his sentence. “A distraction.” 

And then she lifted her hands, channeling the black coils of magic she’d forced back only moments earlier to slam into the wall of stone, sending it crashing down before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to keep up with me or ask questions that I can quickly answer, follow me on Tumblr! You can find me under xravenslight. Have a great week!
> 
> Alpha love: LadyKenz347 (go read Unchained if you haven't started yet!) and msmerlin13  
> Beta love: tofadeawayagain  
> These ladies are my rocks - shower them with the undying love they deserve


	20. Reversed High Priestess

**Chapter 20 -** _**Reversed High Priestess** _

At first, nothing happened. Her magic hit the wall of stone before them and seemed to be swallowed whole, disappearing somewhere within its depths. Then, a deep rumble quaked the earth around them. The ground split open once more, and another crack spiderwebbed up the wall before her.

This power… it was  _intoxicating,_ strange and dark in its beauty. Hermione stood fascinated even as she flexed her fingertips and brought part of the wall down. With a crook of her wrist, she brought another down. As the dust rained down around her, satisfaction at the destruction coursed through her. And now… now she  _felt_ again, the well of grief she'd had locked away behind that wall of magic threatening to swallow her whole, threatening to take every last bit of fight within her and break her down if she allowed it. It was short-lived, though, when the shouts of men echoed through the alley, running footsteps thundering down the corridor.

"Sorry, Granger." Theo gripped her wrist and spun her around. "I'll make it up to you later.  _Petrificus Totalus._ "

The charm hit her square in the back, and Hermione slumped to the ground, head bouncing off the hard packed dirt. She watched dust fly up around her as people skidded to a halt.

"Nott, what the fuck is going on?" barked Greyback. His words rang over the alleyway, and Hermione tried to flex her hands, tried to turn her head, but the petrification held strong.

Beside her, Theo knelt down, making eye contact with her before answering Greyback. "They surprised us, attacked us from behind." The lie rolled off Theo's tongue easily, and Hermione noted the new depth to him—calculating, manipulative. In that moment, he was the epitome of the Slytherin she'd somehow forgotten he was.

The Death Eaters swore, one kicking the dirt as he shoved his wand back in his pocket with a snarl. "Did you see where they went? What about Malfoy?"

Theo shook his head. "They Apparated out. I didn't see faces." He gestured back to the alley the Death Eaters had come down. "Malfoy sent up a distress signal; we followed it here when we were attacked. We haven't been able to make contact since."

With a muttered spell, Theo cancelled the charm on her, and Hermoine stirred. When she sat up with a groan, Theo cut her an apologetic grimace and wrapped an arm under her shoulder, slowly helping her to her feet.

That Greyback was traveling with the scout team raised a red flag, one Theo apparently noticed, as well. His hand tightened in the middle of her lower back in an unspoken warning.

With a snarl, Greyback spoke. "Nott, you know where Malfoy went; take the team and track him down. Report back to camp when you've found him."

Beside her, Theo stilled. "But Granger is—"

"I'll take Granger back to camp." The assertion chilled Hermione, the newly reawakened well of emotion roaring back to the surface as fear, cold and sharp, curled in the pit of her stomach. She remembered rumors of Greyback's ferocity, his blood-thirsty nature and quest to turn as many witches and wizards as possible, and nausea .

Theo's arm tightened again, and he cleared his throat. "I don't—"

" _Go_." Hermione wasn't even aware that she had spoken, but Theo turned to look at her, concern and confusion warring in his eyes. "If Malfoy's been hurt, he'll need your help. I'll get back to camp and meet you there."

Around them, the Death Eaters chortled at the display, and one dared to grumble, "Leaving your best mate behind for your girlfriend, are ye, Nott?" Loud, disgusted snorts replaced the laughter, and the Death Eater spoke again. "What'll your pa say about you shacking up with a Mudblood? Leaving your friend alone, possibly dying—?"

"Enough!" Theo's voice was sharp, and he quickly moved away from Hermione after steadying her again. "Go with Greyback; I'll meet you back at the camp with Draco." He didn't look at her again as he spun away, leading the still chortling Death Eaters away.

And then she was alone with Greyback.

The werewolf didn't pause as he retreated down the same path the others had and Hermione followed, ignoring the pounding in her head whilst watching the man's back.

They thought she and Theo were together… though she couldn't fathom what had given them that impression, given that she'd rarely spent time outside of her room at the Manor and was nearly always escorted by Malfoy.

She smothered the hysterical laugh that threatened to burst from her body. She supposed that anything looked like a relationship when the alternative was rotting away in a cellar. A brush of a hand, a kind word… it was a wonder that she hadn't thought it herself.

But right now, love was the least of her worries. Love had no place on the battlefield, had no place in whatever game she'd been placed in. Greyback and the Death Eaters were more foolish than she thought if they thought she wasn't planning to take down as many of them as she could.

With a flex of her wrist, she refocused on the path before her. Hermione would do whatever it took to survive, use whatever power this magic or Narcissa Malfoy's vision afforded her. Even if that included feigning love with Nott.

Greyback came to a halt, his shoulders stiffening as he looked back at her, observing her ambling pace and then glancing back at the opening of the alleyway. Hermione reached him and moved to amble past, but his hand clapped over her shoulder and yanked her into a shadowed doorway of one of the boarded-up shops.

A violent shiver wound its way down her spine at the contact, and Hermione's breath froze in her throat as Greyback glanced furtively over his shoulder again. She straightened her back, delving into the bolstering magic, and stared a monster in the eyes.

His gaze was frantic, a manic gleam deep in the wide, watery brown gaze. "Help me."

Hermione's breath stuttered in her chest, and she stared at Greyback at a loss for words. " _What_?"

Anger flashed in Greyback's eyes, claws elongating warningly to pierce her skin. "You said you can brew Wolfsbane. There is none; not in this camp, not in any camp, and no apothecary will brew it—at least not for me." His claws flexed deeper, breaking the skin and drawing droplets of blood to the surface. "And I've tried; they were immune to threats, said they'd rather die than help Death Eaters. So they did." His putrid breath washed over her face.

Narcissa's words came back to her in the space between seconds it took her to answer.  _Prepare yourself. A storm is coming_. She wasn't sure what it meant, didn't know how to prepare or what would be happening, but maybe… "What's in this for me?" She tilted her head up, affecting a haughty disposition and a cavalier smugness.

Greyback huffed a disbelieving laugh as he pushed away from her and leaned against the wall of the opposite side of the frame. "What gives you the impression that I'll barter with a filthy little Mudblood like you?"

Hermione allowed a triumphant smirk to unfurl over her lips. "Because I have something you need, and you're clearly desperate to get it." Her mind raced, trying to latch onto anything she could use to her advantage, anything that would help her get more answers and be afforded the room to do so. And then her racing thoughts ground to a halt.

It was so innocuous, such an obvious choice given the course of events that Hermione nearly laughed at the simplicity of it, the way it would be written off by the Death Eaters, how they'd laugh at the members of the Vehme for allowing themselves such frivolity in a war. But it was perfect.

"I'll brew you the Wolfsbane… if you ensure that Nott and I have privacy."

Pupils blown wide, Greyback stared at her. And then, he burst into great, guffawing laughs, resting his hands on his knees as he shook with mirth. When he finally stood, wiping the tears from his eyes, he stared at her in a mixture of disbelief and mocking pity. "Filthy little Mudblood wants some privacy so she can shag her little boyfriend in exchange for a potion?" His shoulder shook again at his joke, but he jerked his head in the affirmative and sobered. "Done. An hour a night.  _After_  I get the potion. No more, and don't try to push it." He muttered under his breath to himself. "Ward your tent, and I'll keep the men away from it."

Her head spun with how easily he acquiesced and she debated the merits of pushing him further. When nothing immediately presented itself to be lost, she pressed on. "I'll need leave to gather ingredients."

Another furtive glance over his shoulder, this time uncertainty drawing his features tight. "I don't—"

Hermione laughed humourlessly, throwing every ounce of courage she had into this act, to be this foreign person she had become. "Then I don't think you really want this. If you'll excuse me… we need to get back to the camp."

His hand shot out, wrapping over her shoulder, and he dragged her back into the shadows of the doorway. "You said you had enough for one, maybe two, cycles. Begin brewing it. After, you'll get one night a month. Go to an apothecary, a village, I don't care… find them and bring them back." He swore under his breath as he allowed her request. "Malfoy will go with you to keep watch. Fool loathes you anyway; he won't let you out of his sight."

Hermione stayed the sigh of relief that threatened to gust out of her. It was a window—a small one, but a window nonetheless—of opportunity. Now she just needed a plan.

"Deal." With lips curling up in a smug smile, she stalked away, wondering if Greyback had any idea just why she was so pleased with herself.

* * *

Nott and Malfoy returned to their tent about thirty minutes after she did. Malfoy had, at some point, been roughened up. Either that or he had been so committed to the act that he'd taken it upon himself to bloody his own lip and blacken his eye.

The sadistic part of her hoped it was the former.

They hadn't been gone long, having only made it to midafternoon, and already the thin canvas walls of the tent felt as though they were pressing in on her, stifling the air in her chest, and threatening to smother her. The magic coiling within was stifling, begging for release, and the riot of feelings she now held forcefully at bay instead of locked behind an iron-clad wall of magic threatened to bury her.

She couldn't help reliving that moment in the alley, the phantom reminder of Greyback's breath gusting over her taunting her. The wall wavered in her mind a tendril of fear lanced up her spine. If he'd seen the fear, the ache, the  _grief_  that tore her apart inside, he'd have destroyed her.

Hermione couldn't force herself to inquire to Malfoy's wounds, instead watching with detached interest as Nott cast an evaluative charm over him and determined them flesh wounds. When they settled on their own cots and silence settled between them, Hermione tried to arrange her face into a careful mask to hide the emotions rearing to break loose within her.

Nott, though, seemed to sense that something was amiss, and he sent furtive glances at her from his cot. Though his was on the far side of the tent, Malfoy's propped between them, he seemed to make excuses to cross before where she sat curled against the canvas, staring down at her hands.

The energy in the tent was fraught, but she thought if just maybe she stared at her hands or clenched them hard enough, she might be able to work through what was going through her mind.

When Nott crouched before her, she swallowed hard, eyes closing tightly against the onslaught of emotions his kind brown eyes held.

_Kind_. That had to be the first time anyone had ever thought that word of a Death Eater, let alone a member of the Vehme. But then she remembered that he'd been one of the few that hadn't ripped her apart night after night, that he'd displayed a modicum of humanity for her to latch onto, and she softened, allowing her emotions to bubble over as her face crumbled.

"I'm not going to ask if you're doing okay because I know you're not," Theo started, his voice low and gaze unwavering. Behind him, Malofy froze and stared at them, a furrow digging into his brow as he eyed them. "Can you still do this?"

Hermione swallowed again, trying to work a needed breath down the sandpaper her throat had become, but it was like swallowing a balloon; it lodged in her throat and made it harder and harder to breath until she finally forced out anything that she could. "You both owe me an explanation."

"I know," Theo said, "and you'll get one—"

"Not here," Malfoy hissed, eyes narrowed into slits as he gazed around the room at the sides of the tent, the entrance, the ceiling. "Anyone—"

"—could be listening. Yes, I know that, Draco." Hermione sighed, and when he froze behind Nott, she glanced up at him, a mixture of anger and confusion warring in her mind. As his gaze landed anywhere but her and he busied himself with cleaning his already spotless cot, it dawned on her.

She'd called him by his given name. When had he become Draco in her head and not Malfoy? Recalling her time in his cellar, she pondered again that his given name likely held great significance to him. Though she didn't know him, had no idea where she was supposed to be in this great mess of things, of one thing she was sure. Malfoy was the heart of all this—the whole bloody Malfoy family was—and the whole reason she'd gotten into this mess to begin with.

If that Patronus hadn't encouraged her go into that village, maybe she'd still be out there.  _Alive_. Maybe weak and defeated, but out there. And not in some gods-forsaken Death Eater camp, dressed in their crimson garb, and killing people she loved.

Oh gods, those she loved…

Shoving to her feet, Hermione pushed past Nott, digging into the well of magic to steady herself.

"I spoke with Greyback on the return to camp." She stood at the entry of the tent, watching as scouts returned and gathered around their respective fires, preparing to roast whatever they'd foraged for the day. Already the air smelled of campfire and cooking meat, and her stomach twisted as though someone had slashed her open and grasped a fistful of her intestines. With a wave of her hand, she cast  _Muffiliato_ and spoke quickly lest anyone noticed the silence that suddenly fell over their tent. "I'll be brewing his Wolfsbane; in exchange, Theo and I have been granted…  _privacy_." The word felt dirty falling off her lips, but Hermione pushed through, ignoring the confused flicker of brows between the two men. "Once a month, I'll be allowed to get supplies in a village… if Malfoy escorts me."

Theo followed her pacing, but took a moment before he spoke. "Granger, I don't think I understand… privacy? What in the name of Merlin—"

"They think we're together—at least, Greyback thinks that we're scratching each other's itch, to quote." Her brow wrinkled as she snapped her mouth shut.

Both Nott and Malfoy, however, stood staring at her with jaws agape. Finally, after several seconds of dry laughter, Malfoy huffed a dry chuckle. "That's rich."

Despite herself, the two words rankled her, and she felt her hands coil into tight fists at her side. "What, Malfoy, can't fathom that someone might see what makes me worth a second glance? Forgive me if I'll take advantage of whatever situation I can to get an advantage here. Not everyone sees me as a gutter waif trying to ride the coattails of the rest of the magical world."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, disregarding her outburst. "We'll need to use it to our advantage, then. They'll exploit it—and it'll make your lives a living hell around here—but if it works…"

Nott finished his sentence for him. "Then we might be able to make it out of here alive."

Hermione nodded, calming the part of her that begged her to level the tent, to send a blast of black magic out to wrap around Malfoy and cut off his air until his eyes frantically begged her to let go. It was the last thought, the stark blood thirstiness of the visual, that stifled the well of power again, and she nodded, looking back down at the worn rugs on the floor. "I'll begin brewing tonight. We have an hour a night of alone time, when I can set a ward and no one can enter and no one can leave."

Theo nodded thoughtfully. "And Draco?"

Hermione crossed back to her cot, tossing herself down on it to stare at the ceiling. "I don't bloody well care what he does with himself." She rolled over to stare at the wall, effectively ending the conversation.

* * *

After evening had fallen, Hermione finally rose from the cot, her back protesting the long hours of recline without movement. She hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, but instead lay staring at the wall, warring with the thoughts threatening to drown her.

Now, though, she reached under her bed, pulling out the beaded bag and rifling through the contents. Slowly, reverently, her fingers smoothed over the books she'd stacked to one side, thankful that she hadn't thought to leave them behind in the manor.

Discarding the books, though, she dug through the rest of the ingredients. Her supply of powdered silver was woefully low, though she noted with a relieved sigh that it appeared to be enough to make it through this moon cycle at least. Valerian roots she had in spades, and the other ingredients could be gathered easily enough.

Finally, at the bottom of her bag, she grasped the last tiny vial she needed, her fingers coiling around it with a rough sigh. Aconite.

The bottle was battered and discoloured, having gone through many hands before it reached her own. Labels overlapped on the glass, different curly scripts, documents of the object's history. The most recent, opposite her own, sent a pang of sorrow through her heart.

Remus Lupin's messy scrawl decorated the vial, the initial letter of the word overly scripted, and she huffed a laugh despite the emotion crowding her chest.

In sixth year, when she'd written to him about learning to brew the potion, he'd been adamantly against it. It was too dangerous, he'd written, and under no circumstances should a Hogwarts student be brewing it themselves.

And then, after several owls and letters explaining why it was necessary that she learn, he'd sent back the tiny vial with his words written across it and a small note:  _tell no one, and be careful. R.L._

That same R.L. marked the vial now, faded with time, and Hermione smoothed her thumb over it again. Another person lost to war. Another voice she'd never hear again.

But now he was gone, and Hermione steeled her spine, slipping the cork out of the vial and depositing the last of the aconite in her hand.

A wave of her wand brought the lone cauldron floating to her, its rusted sides glowing orange in the candlelight, and Hermione set about putting the ingredients together. One by one, mixing appropriately and stirring when boiling, all the while ignoring the low hum of magic boiling in her depths.

And when she left the cauldron to simmer in the moonlight, the howls of a wolf echoing in the night, she shivered and promised Remus' spirit, wherever he was, that she'd avenge him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I appreciate all of your lovely feedback, and I'm just so thrilled everyone is enjoying this fic. Just a quick note: I get married next Saturday, so the update for Chapter 22 may be a little late. I'll do my best to get it all set up so I can update remotely, but I just wanted to note that now. I'll mention this again next week, but I thought you all might like to know! (P.S. I have this prewritten to Chapter 35, so updates will keep coming!)
> 
> Many thank you to my alpha babes LadyKenz 347 and msmerlin13 and to my beautiful beta tofadeawayagain! They're incredible.


	21. Reversed Ten of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm sorry this is late - wedding prep and whatnot for this weekend. Thank you all so much for your well well-wishes! I appreciate you all so much. I'm anticipating having the next chapter up on time, but I'll post to Tumblr if it will be late. Have a lovely weekend!

**Chapter 21 -** _ **Reversed**_   _ **Ten of Swords**_

The weeks that passed were much the same as the others. The only thought she allowed herself to entertain was the single-handed desire to make it through the next day and then the next – survival encapsulated in twelve hour shifts of time.

The second week, though, she finally broke.

She, Theo, and Malfoy returned from their patrol, and Theo set to boiling a rabbit they'd caught over their fire. The smell of the gamey meat curled in her nose, and Hermione stared up at the tent ceiling. Hermione closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of sadness she felt at the familiar scent.

Quick flashes of memories passed behind her closed lids, and she exhaled harshly into the stillness of the tent.  _Laughing smiles, traded quips, and—_

Hermione forced herself from the cot. No sense dwelling on things she couldn't help, and she needed to tend to the Wolfsbane. It was nearly done and then…

Then she could begin getting her answers.

The potion was settled on a low table beneath a window she'd transfigured in one of the tent walls. During the day, the flap was closed, allowing the potion to brew undisturbed in the muted light that streamed through the dark canvas. At night, she pinned the flap up, allowing moonlight to dance over the potion in dappled spots.

With a steady hand, she halted the steady stirring she'd charmed on the potion and eyed the substance. Milky white and smoking slightly, the potion looked like someone had bottled moonlight on a foggy night and then dumped it in a cauldron. It slightly sparkled, and Hermione thought it might tip toward a lavender sheen, mimicking the aconite that made the potion effective.

"It looks done." Theo's voice was quiet. He'd slipped into the tent behind her at some point, and he stood gazing at the potion with an inscrutable expression. "Though I've never—"

"It's not." Malfoy was sitting on his cot, a book propped on his bent knee, and his expression was bored. "Watch the way it bubbles; it's still a little lumpy. It needs to be smooth before it can be ingested." His tone was haughty, and he didn't even bother to look up from his book as he spoke.

Hermione loathed him. She loathed the easy way he carried himself, the casual sling of his leg over the other. She wanted to punch him, to beat him down, to scream in his face until she was hoarse.

She hated the radio silence he'd treated her with since that afternoon in the cavern, the sharp line of his shoulders that told her that he had answers he couldn't—or wouldn't—share with her.

And most of all right now… she hated that he was right.

"I know how to brew the  _bloody_  potion, Malfoy. It's not new; the Order needed it regularly because of  _your_ people, so keep your ruddy commentary to yourself." With a disgruntled nod at Theo, Hermione said. "One more night ought to do it. The moonlight is the most important part."

Theo sighed deeply, ducking to glance out at the hearkening nightfall, the way the sunset seemed to settle a misleadingly warm, golden glow over the camp. "Just in time, too, it seems. The full moon is in three days."

Hermione nodded, inhaling slowly, evenly to calm the pounding of her heart.

Three days.

In three days, she'd have answers.  _If_  she could convince Nott and Malfoy to give them to her.

"Right," she said, eyeing the potion and resetting the charm that stirred it counterclockwise every five minutes without prompting. "I'll monitor it for the next two days and deliver it to Greyback on Sunday."

None of them met the other's gaze, and with another sharp nod to herself, Hermione crossed to her cot and settled down again.

* * *

Someone was screaming in their tent.

Hermione lurched upright, heart racing as she whipped her gaze frantically back and forth. She needed to help someone, get them somewhere safe, before that green light flashed too closely again. He had to be here… she'd just seen the glint of firelight off his glasses but—

"You alright?" A dry hand closed over her knee, and Hermione recoiled. Slowly, the face focused in the dim light of the night, and Hermione placed Theo's concerned gaze and, just beyond him, Malfoy's gaze drawn tight. When he saw her looking, he rolled back over in his cot.

A sharp nod preceded her response, and her voice was scratchy from the sounds that had wrenched from her throat in her sleep. "I'm fine. Just a dream."

Theo's gaze was skeptical, but he bobbed his head in lieu of responding. When he settled into his cot, Hermione rolled over. After a moment, sheets rustled behind her, and she couldn't tell whose eyes bored into her back: Malfoy's or Theo's.

Despite trying, she couldn't fall asleep, and when the first fingertips of sunlight spread over the camp in an amber glow, Hermione rose from the bed and went to sit by the campfire.

How many people were out there that she loved, that she called friends, waiting for someone to save them? How many of them knew her now, knew that she now wore the crimson of the Vehme?

And how many of them knew that she had the blood of the Order on her hands?

Behind her, the tent flap rustled, and Hermione tensed.

"You've got to stop doing that." Draco's voice was flat, apathetic almost, and Hermione didn't respond. Her silence apparently invited more out of him. "They know to watch for those things—the tells. You didn't have them before…"

She wasn't sure if the before he was referring to was before the curse, before coming here, before meeting his mother and Luna, but she turned to look at him fully this time. A gentle prodding at her mental walls sent her on high alert, and she whipped around, wand out and pointed in his face. "What the bloody hell do you want, Malfoy?"

Staring down the length of her wand, Malfoy considered her for a moment. "That anger? The rage that you feel, buried beneath the guilt and the sorrow and the fear?  _Use it._ Build it up like armour around yourself and don't let anyone in. Don't let anything out."

Harry's words echoed back to her in the silence, the reminder so sudden from the last time she thought of it that her breath froze in her throat.  _It's like building a brick wall._

"The Death Eaters—the Vehme—will do whatever they can to exploit weaknesses."

She glanced up at Malfoy, who was watching her closely, eyeing the tight line of her shoulders. With a sigh, she leaned back, watching him.

Malfoy advanced on her retreat. When he spoke, his words were low and even, almost soothing had it been from anyone but Malfoy. "You react, Granger. Not all the time, but often enough that it's a tell. Anyone watching you can see it coming." He stood, pacing toward her before he paused. "May I?" He lifted his hands in an awkward gesture, and though she wasn't sure what he would do, she nodded.

He slipped behind her. "Face forward." She obliged, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and he continued. "When you get nervous or emotional, your shoulders tighten." His index finger settled on the plane between her shoulder blades. "Right here. And then, the tension slowly spreads outward." His finger ghosted over her shoulder, pausing on the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. "Your pulse flutters here." His hand stilled on her arm. "Your wrists flex, coiling in on themselves like they're holding on to something, almost like you're trying to contain the magic that threatens to shoot out of you."

Hermione huffed a laugh despite the confusion warring within her. Malfoy was…  _touching her_?

And then it was gone, and he settled himself across from her again. Despite herself, thoughts whirled in her head so quickly she couldn't keep up.

Across from her, he grimaced, rubbing a finger against his temple. "And when you get nervous, your thoughts scream. How do you survive with that cacophony all the time?"

With a solemn twist to her mouth, she said, "For a long time, it was all I had." The raw honesty was more than she'd expected, but it continued without her volition. "It got lonely, on the run. I got used to getting lost in the noise."

It was Malfoy's turn to look uncomfortable, and they allowed a loaded silence to settle between them. There was so much Hermione wanted to do with the moment, so much she wanted to say, to ask. But she just sat there, letting the mask she'd donned slip a little until he cleared his throat.

"Right." His tone was rough, and he cleared it again uncomfortably before he continued. "There's no perfect art to it; you have to find what works for you."

"And what do you do?"

Malfoy stood, pacing before her. "My mother taught me. When I was young, actually. My father always said that a Malfoy man didn't emote. And though I could interact with my mother as I pleased within the wall of the Manor, I was punished if I acted out of line."

Hermione nodded. The assessment made sense, given what she knew of the Malfoy patriarch. "So?"

Malfoy blinked once. "So I compartmentalised. When you're in the middle of a war, Granger, you don't allow yourself to feel; it can kill you or will make you kill others."

That much was true. The face of the woman from the manor flashed before her eyes, but Hermione forced it down, shoving it back into a box and sealing her brick wall around it. When she looked up again, Malfoy nodded. "Just like that. With practice, it'll become easier."

_Build them up one by one until no one can get in._ Harry's words sent a jolt of pain through her that, for once, she recognized but didn't allow herself to feel.

"Don't give them the opportunity to catch you off guard."

_Brick._

And Malfoy was gone.

* * *

Two days later, she stared down at the cauldron of bubbling Wolfsbane. It was ready, but something in her gut told her to wait.

It wasn't that she didn't trust herself or her brewing skills, but a chill had settled down her spine during the night and now she couldn't place what it was.

Delving deep, Hermione coiled her magic close. It wasn't warm, but it provided a sense of comfort she hadn't anticipated feeling since discovering the source of it. She couldn't shake the feeling that something important was coming—especially given Narcissa's appearance earlier in the week and the way the woman seemed to vasciliate between airy and iron pure-blood wife—but she couldn't place it. Hermione also couldn't spend long focusing on the deaths of war… to think about those she killed, whether by accident or intentionally…

With a sharp shake of her head, Hermione shut down that line of thinking and raised her hand, encouraging her magic down the length of her forearm in a controlled streak.

She'd been practicing; with patrols declining due to notification of the camp's move to a new location in a few days, they'd been restless. Hermione had grown stir crazy staring at the walls of the tent and had retired to the campfire, and now she stood before the cauldron, ready to separate it into vials and take to Greyback, but something stopped her.

Answers were just on the other side of that cauldron… but could she handle that?

" _Now_ it's ready." Malfoy appeared at her elbow, staring down at the bubbling mass alongside her.

An acrid smell rose from the potion, billowing off the top amid the slow coils of steam that curled upward in translucent grey whorls. The slight lavender sheen of the potion had intensified since the previous night, and now the surface was nearly mirror-like beneath the steam.

"It is." Over the last few hours, Hermione and Theo had settled back into a semblance of the easy rapport they'd developed before, but Hermione struggled with the rapid transitions in Malfoy's demeanor. All of them, she supposed, had to keep up appearances for her to earn the privacy Greyback had promised.

And she needed the answers she would get from that time.

With a huff, Hermione summoned the containers she'd collected over the last few days. Slowly, she ladled potion into the vials, and Malfoy silently picked up another and joined her. By the time they finished, the sun had risen and the rest of the camp was awakening.

Capping the last bottle, Hermione loosened her shoulders. Magic tingled along her arms and in her hair, the tension she felt seeking any outlet it could find. She swept all the vials into her arms, ducking out of the tent without another word to Malfoy and ignoring Theo as he roused sleepily from his cot and stared after her.

The camp was cleaner now than it had been when they arrived. The Death Eaters had packed away everything but the necessities for the move that night, and Hermione held her head high and kept a sneer in place as she walked.

It was easy to pretend she still felt nothing; compartmentalizing had always been her forte. During school, it had been easy to put one subject in one box and others in separate boxes and mentally file through them as needed. Emotions, though, had always been a bit difficult for her; emotions tended to bubble up unexpectedly, overflowing and spilling out over anyone and anything that happened to be near her.

Now, though, the magic was intoxicating, and Hermione found it quite simple to fall into the depths of it willingly, though she forced herself to lock it away inside, building brick after brick to lock it behind. She wanted to dive down as far as she could and tunnel up through it. She longed to allow it to run unchecked over the lengths of her fingertips, to dance through her hair, to crackle along her skin. In the tent with Malfoy and Nott, she held it at bay, trying to root out any subliminal messages in their infrequent communications and decode the silent looks they shared.

Walking through the camp, Hermione allowed the power to unfurl, to wrap her body in the black velvet of its lure. It was her cloak, her sword and shield, and she found strength in the power it lended her.

With the magic, she felt powerful in a way she never had before, and that would have to be enough to get her through everything that was to come.

As she approached Greyback's tent, Hermione sent the magic crackling down her fingertips, allowing a cruel smile to to dance on her lips. It wasn't an act, not really. The hatred that simmered in her belly was real, the product of all the death and destruction that she'd seen at their hands—and now her own, one of the last real things she had that was her own. Her lifeline, she felt calculating, cool determination spread through her.

Magic or not, she'd make it out of this. The vials in her hand were just the first step.

Affecting Malfoy's signature posture and countenance, she stopped, surveying the tents and their occupants. Death Eaters stepped around her and swore at her, snarling lips curling back from their teeth as she marked each one: when and how she would kill them. What she would say to them as their breath bubbled out of their lips.

The satisfaction that the thought brought bubbling to surface should have frightened her, but Hermione clung to it as approached the mouth of the tent. Two guards stood watching her approach. When she stopped before them, her lips curled in a sneer. "Greyback is expecting me."

One of them stepped out of the shadows, the stench of liquor roiling off of him, and Hermione fought the gag the smell threatened. "Funny, Mudblood, because we haven't received orders to let anyone in."

Thorfinn Rowle. She remembered him from the Department of Mysteries in fifth year… a time that seemed so long ago, so foreign. The spot on her shoulder that used to hold evidence of the dark magic he'd hit her with tightened.

She channeled the disgust his stench brought into her expression, stepping into his space, challenging him. "I don't think Greyback makes it his business to outline every detail of his day to his underlings." She let her disdain drip into her words, watching with satisfaction at the fire that lit in his gaze.

Good. Maybe he'd snap, and she could release some of the magic that danced along her wrists like bangles of black, begging for relief.

Behind him, crunching footsteps approached slowly and the canvas of the tent flap opened, revealing the lowly-lit interior. From within, Greyback's gravelly voice spoke. "Get back to your bloody post, Rowle, and let the girl in."

Against her better judgement, Hermione let a mirthless chuckle slip loose and she checked Rowle's shoulder as she stepped past him and into the tent.

Smoke swirled in the air around them, and Hermione had to blink several times before she could see clearly in the dimly lit room. The tent was shrouded in shadows, and Hermione carefully studied the various sheets and blankets hung haphazardly over the tent walls to block out the daylight. In the centre of the tent, a singular lantern lit area, and Hermione could see that the table was covered in maps, and plans were scattered haphazardly among wadded up scraps of parchment.

The tent looked scarcely ready to travel to the next camp in the morning.

Greyback had assumed a reclined position amongst a pile of pillows behind the table, a sweet smelling cigarette dangling from his lips. He took a long draw of it, the red tip glowing bright in the dark. Hermione tensed, momentarily going back, stuck in the grand foyer in Malfoy Manor as Death Eaters burned their cigarettes into her skin, the phantom smell of curdling flesh resurrected itself in the air around her and—

She blinked once forcefully, banishing the lingering scent back to her memories. With a swagger in her step she didn't feel, Hermione strode forward, depositing the small leather pouch Theo had given her on the table between herself and Greyback, staring at him through the white haze of smoke.

Finally, Hermione spoke, irritation settling into the middle of her shoulders as he stared at her with half-lidded eyes. Drugs. On the battlefield. That they could even afford such luxury when there were people out there dying... A rough swallow around the lump in her throat preceded her. "It's all there. Brewed over the last few weeks."

Greyback nodded, taking another drag of his cigarette and watching her closely. He exhaled, the smoke billowing in her face. "What are you doing this for?"

Hermione considered him for a moment. This was dangerous territory, though instinct prickled along the back of her neck that told her that she would have to give him some measure of the truth. If he sensed anything less…

If he sensed anything less, she knew she wouldn't make it out of his tent alive. With an incline of her head, Hermione reached between them to smooth her hand over the supple leather of the pouch. "There was a time where someone that I was very close to suffered from Lycanthropy." The whites of Greyback's teeth flashed in the low light as he snarled at her choice in words, but she continued on. "To him, it was a death sentence, the end of his life and the nail in the proverbial coffin for his life."

"Remus Lupin."

Hermione peered at him through the haze in the smoke as Professor Lupin's confession came back to her.  _I was infected, bitten by Fenrir Greyback as a child, and my father… he disowned me._ With a rough nod of her head, Hermione agreed. "Professor Lupin. And I saw, once, what he was like without the potion, and it was something that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

The words lingered in the air around them, seemingly suspended in the smoke that he blew out between them. After a moment, he leaned forward, ashing his cigarette on the arm of the chair he sat in. "How much is there?"

Hermione followed suit, leaning forward and picking up the pouch containing the vials of Wolfsbane. Carefully, she loosened the drawstrings and emptied the contents between them. Seven of them slid out, clinking against one another, and she smoothed a hand over them. Already curling vapour was filling the negative space of the container; Hermione pressed her palm over them, the cool expanse of glass soaking into her palm.

"There's enough to last the week; take one a day the week preceding the full moon, per usual." She swallowed thickly, the next words heavy on her tongue. "I'll need more ingredients for the next moon cycle."

Across from her, Greyback froze, fiery suspicion burning in his eyes as he stared at her through the haze. "I thought you said you had enough to last the next two cycles?"

Her lips pressed together as she forced her hand to stay steady, to maintain the proud line of her shoulders as she leaned back in the chair, her hands folding over her stomach in a show of arrogance. "I bluffed."

Greyback bristled, his anger palpable. "What do you mean  _you bluffed_?"

Hermione rolled her wand between her fingertips as the werewolf's eyes studied her keenly. She smoothed her hands down her thighs as she met his gaze, willing every last bit of nonchalance she could into her glare. "I bluffed." She shrugged. "I had something you needed, and you had something I wanted. It was a bargain, and you didn't examine the terms carefully enough."

"Fucking Mudblood, I'll—" Greyback swept to his feet, the sudden movement rocking the table between them and sending the vials dangerously close to the edge of the table. Hermione stopped them with a wave of her hand, and she glared up at him as he towered over her.

"We had a deal, and I fulfilled my end of it—I've brought you the potion, and now I get my time with Nott." She smiled as she swept to her feet, casually wiggling her fingers and sending the vials rolling slowly toward the ledge. "Unless you'd rather…"

She trailed off, letting the unspoken threat hang between them, and felt victory lift the weight of anxiety off her shoulders as panic flashed in the wolf's eyes. With a curt nod, he returned to his chair and dropped stiffly in it. He lit another cigarette and took a drag before answering her, but he refused to meet her gaze. "Give me the potion and get out of my gods-damned tent."

Triumph spread a warm glow through her, and Hermione flicked her wrist, sending the vials rolling rapidly toward him. Greyback scrambled upright, snatching them up one by one, and when she whirled around to exit, the power in her step wasn't feigned. It wasn't until she was nearly to the exit when he spoke again. "You and Malfoy will be assigned a scouting mission once we're settled at the new camp." His tone was gruff, and Hermione peered over her shoulder at him. "If it's discovered that you've told anyone of the details…"

The threat hung unfinished between them, and Hermione inclined her head in understanding. "If you don't mind, I'd like to enjoy my privacy with Theodore now."

She didn't wait for a response as she pushed through the flap and into the darkening camp.

Hermione couldn't quell the sick feeling in her stomach, the way her mind tried to punish her for the lie. Briefly, Harry's face flickered across her subconscious, the blank incomprehension he'd wear, slack-jawed and round-eyed, if he found out she was even feigning a relationship with Theodore Nott.

With a harsh shake of her head, she dismissed the thought.  _Harry's dead,_  she thought bitterly.

As she crossed the camp, Hermione struggled with the words to say, how she could demand answers from someone she didn't even trust. She was trapped. She could either continue in ignorance, trusting none of them and continuing to lay poorly concocted plans that she could execute later on, or she could duck into her tent, listen to the explanations that Theo offered to her and forge a tentative alliance with the man.

Tilting her head back to look at the sky above her, Hermione paused in the dark space between two tents, listening to drunken singing around her as she stared up at the stars twinkling in the night sky.

Not so long ago, she'd wondered if she'd ever see them again. Then she'd lost all ability to care about them, so lost in rage and hate and the single-minded desire to survive no matter how much blood she wore on her hands at the end of it.

Now, though, she stared up at the sky, relishing the feeling of the night air on her face. Death Eater camp or not, she was free to walk in the night again. Hermione didn't know what Theo or Malfoy's place was in all of this, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that without Malfoy there, she'd likely still be rotting in the cellar, dead, or tied to the husk of a man her best friend had become.

And so, with a deep breath, Hermione strolled out of the shadows and advanced on her tent, having settled on arranging a tentative truce with two wizards whose loyalties she doubted lay with her.

Theo and Draco were sitting at the rundown table in their tent when Hermione entered. She allowed the flap to fall behind her, and the resulting gust of air sent the bluebell flame on the table dancing. Both wizards looked up at her, though their expressions were wary and guarded.

Theo spoke first, clearing his throat and shrugging his shoulders up, almost like he was anticipating a blow. "Well?"

Hermione crossed the room, careful not to turn her back to them, and slumped into the chair she'd come to think of as her own. She slouched in it, tossing her legs over its arm as she stared at the far well, trying to quell everything warring within her before looking at him. "I gave it to him. We spoke—briefly—and it's been arranged. An hour a night, we'll have privacy. Either in the tent or elsewhere."

Theo and Malfoy exchanged looks before Theo said, "So it's settled then. The whole of the camp thinks we're… together?"

An exasperated sigh gusted out of her, and she finally looked at them, both wearing twin expressions of disbelief. "Apparently so. But it works out in our favour because both of you have explaining to do."

Across from her, they exchanged another glance, and Theo opened his mouth to speak, but Draco beat him to it. "What kind of privacy were you granted?"

_What kind of privacy?_ Hermione scoffed, opening her mouth to answer, but Malfoy continued. "Were you given express confirmation that the two of you would in no way be monitored during that time in the camps?"

Hermione sighed, thinking back through the brief exchange with Greyback. "Bugger," she muttered on an exhale, and Malfoy's lips pressed into a thin line, confirming her realisation.

"Exactly. Greyback is a lot of things, but he's not a fool. Asking for a bargain like that is suspicious, and you'll have to convince him that nothing wayward is happening."

"So that means?"

Theo answered. "That means that we can't talk about anything in the camp; if you want answers, we'll have to leave." He paused, rubbing a hand down his face. "And that means that we'll have to play the part here."

Dread unfurled in the pit of her stomach, and Hermione's gaze darted away from the resignation in Theo's own. But what it caught on…

Across from Theo, Malfoy squirmed slightly in his seat, a dozen unnameable emotions flashing through his eyes. When he noticed her watching, though, he quickly shuttered his gaze. Hermione watched the mask fall into place, and when he tilted his chin to stare down his nose at her, Hermione's own gaze narrowed.

What the bloody hell did that mean?

Theo reached forward, elbows landing heavily on the table before them, and he cradled a mug in his hands. "I hope you're a damn good actor, Granger."

Brow furrowed, Hermione stared him down. "What does—"

With a barked laugh, Malfoy stood, waving his wand to silence the tent. When he looked over his shoulder at them, his expression was mirthful and he looked different than the Malfoy she knew. "You've got five minutes before that spell can be broken, Nott. Either you tell her or I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13. Beta love to tofadeawayagain!


	22. Three of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! Thank you all for your well wishes for my wedding; it was an absolutely wonderful day. Now, though, I'm excited to give you all another chapter. And we're nearly to the end of part two! Thanks so much for continuing to read along!

**Chapter 22 -** **_Three of Wands_ **

Hermione glanced back and forth between Theo and Malfoy, questions tumbling through her mind. When Theo continued to stare at Malfoy with a slack jaw, Hermione spoke slowly. “Will one of you tell me what’s going on so we can figure out a plan?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Not my secret to spill, Granger. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me, anyway.” His tone was clipped, and Hermione could tell from the taut line of his shoulders and the way he twirled his wand in his fingertips that she had hit a nerve. 

Thankfully, Theo spoke, breaking the tension. “Granger… oh gods, this is awkward.” He swore, winding his fingers together before him and studying the way they twined together as he muttered to himself. “It’s war, right? I didn’t expect for any of this to happen.”

Behind him, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Time, Nott, there’s not a lot of it. Get on with it.”

Hermione nodded, and Theo squeezed his eyes shut, continuing. “Before the war, I met someone… someone from Hogwarts. And I loved her—still do.” 

_ “Oh _ .” It hadn’t been the confession Hermione had expected, and the innocence of it was bizarre, especially spoken aloud in the quiet solitude of their tent in the middle of a war camp. “Who was she?”

Theo winced again and averted his gaze. “A Ravenclaw. I’ve come to understand that you’re quite close.”

_ Luna _ . 

And suddenly, the covert looks in the cavern, the way she had brushed her hand over Theo’s forearm upon meeting, how Luna knew to find them there… it all fell into place, and Hermione plopped backward in her chair, her gaze raising to the tent ceiling. Silence descended between them, and she finally found her voice, cursing the revelation for robbing her of speech. “I just… how? Why?”

Theo snickered lightly, his arms raising in a shrug out of the corner of her vision. “Beats me. Lovegood is… like no one I’ve ever met before. I couldn’t even begin to tell you when it happened, but it did. And if I make it out of this damned war alive… I’ll never let her go again.”

Hermione nodded, but Nott continued. “So you’ll have to excuse me if I find this—” he gestured between the two of them “—odd and difficult to commit to.” His hands rose to his face and scrubbed over it, a heavy sigh gusting out of him. “I promised her I’d keep an eye on you, and I won’t break it now. Whatever it takes.”

Instead of pushing it, Hermione swung her legs to the floor and looked at Theo. “I’m glad for that… for you and Luna.” She swallowed the ire that threatened to fill her next words. “I’m still not sure I can trust you. Either of you.”

Behind Theo, Malfoy rolled his eyes, and to her surprise, Theo laughed. “I’d call you a fool if you did. Trust is earned, Granger, and we’ve not done much to earn it.”

Malfoy’s deep tenor interrupted. “As much as I hate to interrupt this feel good fest, we need to figure out how we’re going to do this, and I estimate about two minutes before they notice the silencing charm. Casting another might be suspicious.” 

For once, Hermione agreed with Malfoy, and she looked at them both. “We’ll alternate how we spend the time; if we leave camp too often, it’ll look suspicious.” Both men nodded, and she continued. “Malfoy and I have been given leave to look for ingredients for the potion once we relocate camps. Theo, when we’re out, we’ll also scout for a safe place to meet. Can you get word to Luna?”

A ghost of longing passed over his face, and he nodded, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a folded piece of parchment and handing it to Hermione. “It’s charmed. The words disappear here and reappear on her copy, only legible by the intended receiver.”

Hermione studied the parchment. It was sophisticated charm work, especially given that it was concealed from anyone besides the intended. “Once we find a place, we’ll let you know. She can meet us there.” 

Hermione glanced between the two men, a heavy weight settling in her chest as her gaze landed on Malfoy’s back; he stood near the mouth of the tent, staring out the small sliver that was visible through the gap. “Time’s up.” His voice was low. “Welcome to the team, Granger.”

She couldn’t contain the sliver of foreboding that slid down her spine as his gaze landed on hers.

The camp rose before the sun the next morning, shrinking their tents into tiny parcels that were shoved into pockets or bags, and all of them trudged just south of the village where Hermione, Theo, and Malfoy had met Narcissa and Luna.

Hermione could feel eyes crawling over them, the ridiculing words that the other Death Eaters muttered at them as she and Theo walked shoulder to shoulder. They didn’t touch, didn’t speak, but she knew that word had spread: Theodore Nott and the Mudblood. She’d heard taunting around the camp as she stood casting  _ Evanesco  _ over the cauldron hanging over the campfire. 

They were just words, she’d rationalised to herself, but it didn’t quell the magic that danced in her stomach, begging to be let free.

On the other side of her, Malfoy trudged, silently fuming over Merlin only knew what. He’d roused her before the others had woken that morning and stood over her cot, his mouth in a taut line. “Remember that this is all for show. Either commit or get the hell out of here.” 

His words had been harsh, but a needed reminder. 

Now, she walked along the cobbled road with her back stiff, projecting every ounce of courage she could. It helped that her magic crackled along her hands and in the tips of her hair; the other Death Eaters kept a wide berth, and Hermione, Theo, and Malfoy had moved to the front of the procession to walk behind Greyback, their crimson robes swirling around their feet. Even in their disgrace, the crimson robes were an ever-present reminder to the camp’s inhabitants of their rank. 

They were nearing the Apparition point, sun beating down on them despite the chill of the day, when Hermione felt it. 

A prickling started along her spine. It slid from her shoulders and down her back, like a lover’s caress - a caress she knew intimately, which should have warmed her but instead felt like ice. Someone was watching her. Despite herself, her face screwed up in a grimace. The other Death Eaters kept a close watch on them. She’d  grown accustomed to the lingering feeling of their gazes, but this feeling was  _ different _ . Familiar.

Beside her, Theo bristled, his hand brushing hers.  He tilted his head toward the woods, keen eyes flitting over the treetops before cutting back to them.

On the other side of her, Malfoy nodded, and the two men dragged their gaze around in a show of boredom. Hermione saw the clear calculation in each face, watching the way their keen minds analysed everyone that surrounded them. 

Before them, a figure emerged, blocking their path. Crimson robes swirled about the newcomer’s feet as he strode forward, halting the party.

_ Ron.  _

Each clunking step brought him closer, stirring up dust as he dragged the toes of his boots into the earth. When he stopped before them, he cocked his head to the side, studying them. “Our Lord sends his regards.” He stared at them each in turn, a cold smile lilting his lips. “Though he’s quite disappointed that you’ve neglected to further the cause.”

Greyback bristled. “It’s not our fault that he stationed us in the middle of nowhere.”

Ron’s shoulders shook with a mocking laugh as he brought his hands before them, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.  "Some fucking wizards you lot are."

Greyback’s mouth fell open to respond, but Ron slid his wand from his sleeve. With lightning fast reflexes, so unlike the friend she once knew, Ron flourished his wand in Greyback’s direction, muttering an almost lazy, “ _ Crucio _ .” 

Greyback crumpled to the ground with a sickening crunch, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat; was the crunch the Wolfsbane? For a moment, her thin grasp on hope slipped, and then Greyback rolled to his back, writhing on the ground and gritting his teeth. Her breath rushed out in a relieved huff when she realized the crunch was his wrist, not the potion. Her bargaining chips remained intact.

Ron continued his advance, eyeing each of them in turn, and she rearranged her countenance into a bored mask. When his eyes met hers, his smile deepened, a lewd glint coming to his eyes. “‘Mione, you look well. Certainly better than the last time I saw you.”

She inclined her head, eyeing Malfoy and Theo out of the corner of her eye. Subtly, so slightly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching, Malfoy shifted in front of her. Theo’s arm brushed her own. She cleared her throat, staring down at him. “I am, no thanks to you.” 

Ron’s laughter echoed over them as Greyback’s cries continued to fill the air, and she could feel the disdain dripping off the Death Eaters behind her; that someone from the Order had gained such a favoured position with the Dark Lord rankled them. With a wave of his wrist, the curse stopped. Greyback quieted, breathing heavily, sweat drenching his tattered clothing. 

Ron kicked at the werewolf as he stepped around him, encroaching on Hermione’s personal space even as Theo and Draco tightened ranks around her. Clearing his throat, Ron’s voice rang out around them. “Since Greyback can’t lead you the way you’re supposed to be led, the Dark Lord has appointed someone more  _ fit _ to lead the ranks.” With a curling smile, Ron’s eyes landed on Hermione’s once more. “You’re all reporting to me.”

Dread unfurled in her stomach, and Hermione took an unconscious step backward. Of its own volition, her hand found Theo’s upper arm, gripping it tightly. 

She didn’t miss the way the corners of Ron’s eyes tightened, angry wrinkles spider webbing outward, and he took a deep breath before growling, “What the bloody hell is going on here?”

Greyback huffed a laugh, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground as he pushed himself up to his elbows. Sweat streaked through the dirt on his forehead, and Hermione felt a pang of unwelcome sympathy at the dark stain at the apex of his trousers. “Haven’t you heard, Weasel? Gryffindor’s Princess broke bad and is now fucking Theodore Nott.” A ripple of uncomfortable laughter spread through the crowd.

Ron’s lip curled, and Theo wrapped a hand around her back, his thumb pressing into her spine, silently urging her to stand her ground. Taking his cue, she stepped forward, allowing her magic to crackle in the air around them. “If you’ve got something to say, I suggest keeping it to yourself, Ronald. You know what happened the last time you made me angry.” 

Hermione strode past him, checking him with her shoulder, and made for the Apparition point. His mirthful words followed her down the path and rang in her ears, the threat in them clear. “Pity. Such a waste. If you get tired of lying with the snakes, you know where to find me.” He laughed, the sound clear and thin. “And even if you don’t, I’m sure they’re tire of you eventually.”

The words stoked her magic, racing along her hands until she could feel its pull. Hermione didn’t look back at him as she cleared the ground to the Apparition point, and she stared resolutely ahead as she concentrated on Malfoy and Theo’s footsteps. Tears threatened, but she held them back as she clung to the only thought that wouldn’t betray her emotion: he wasn’t the boy she’d loved anymore.

She wasn’t the same girl, either. 

She was just turning on her heel, keeping the snowy fields of northern Scotland firmly in mind, when a hand clamped tightly around her wrist, whisking them both through the planes of magic.

Everything was a riot of colour around her; despite her best attempt, Hermione couldn’t turn her neck to look at the tagalong, couldn’t determine who it was from the cool fingers on her wrist. When they finally landed, she wrenched her hand free, stumbling forward as she whirled around and stabbed her wand into the uninvited person’s face. 

And her wand leveled with the deep granite eyes of Draco Malfoy. 

“You can’t just bloody take off like that, Granger. There are a lot of people out there risking their lives for you and—” Malfoy spluttered to a stop, visibly checking his emotions. He forced his hands into his pockets with an exasperated huff. His next statement was a half-hearted attempt at a truce, his grimace colouring just how inane he felt even as the words fell between them. “We’re a team now.”

Hermione’s gaze flickered between his eyes, searching for an answer to a question she couldn’t even formulate. Finally, she spoke, though her tone held far less fight than she wanted it to. “Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean I answer to you, Malfoy.” 

They stared each other down for a moment, until another echoing  _ pop _ of Apparition sounded and Draco broke the stare. Hermione kept her wand trained on him until another hand wrapped around her wrist, forcing the wand to her side as the rest of the camp arrived. 

It was desolate, a stretch of open land blanketed in a thin layer of snow; in the distance, barely visible in the haze of the early morning fog, she could see a line of evergreens. And beyond that?

Hogwarts. 

Hermione paused, rooting herself to her spot as her eyes traced over the school lovingly. Something about seeing the school dotted with snow clenched her heart, and Hermione swallowed thickly. It’d been a little over a year since she’d left in desperation, Harry and Ron at her side as they escaped to try to make the world whole again…

But now, staring at it as her cloak swirled around her in a sudden gust of wind that chilled her to the bone, it seemed as though ages had passed, and she’d never felt so alone as she did then. 

Hermione hadn’t recognized the significance of the location when Apparating, hadn’t thought what their proximity to the school might mean. But now, staring at its distant stone facade, a sob threatened in her throat. 

Hogwarts had been home… she still, to some extent, considered it her home. She’d grown up there, become a witch there, and she’d met the best friends of her life within the castle walls. 

It all felt so far away now.

When a throat cleared behind her, Theo’s gaze met her own before sliding away to study the castle walls in the distance. Around them, the familiar sounds of camp preparation rang out, Death Eaters calling back and forth to one another, the crackling sound of campfires creating an ambient noise that she recognised as the signal of the camp settling in for the day. 

“It feels different,” Theo said, his gaze flickering back to hers again. When Hermione flattened her lips in a grimace, he nodded. “Everything’s changing.”

Hermione shook her head. She didn’t know how to tell him it had all changed under their noses, before any of them had felt any of the rifts of the war, before house rivalries were the most pressing part of their days, before O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s had even crossed their mind. The shiver that worked its way down her spine reminded her of Narcissa’s words, her promise that Hermione would usher in a new world, and for the first time since hearing Narcissa’s confession, she felt a flicker of the courage that had encouraged her placement in Gryffindor. 

For the first time, Hermione delved into the magic for something other than protection or intimidation. It sang in her blood, sizzling along veins and across sinews. When she curled her fist and flexed her fingertips, the magic purred within her—waiting. And when she stared at a tree in the distance, cocking her head just  _ so _ , she watched as it slowly creaked, swaying to one side, before snapping off and falling to the ground with a ground-rumbling boom. The camp paused around her, watching the snow settle where it had fallen and Hermione knew.

She’d found her control. Sometime between Narcissa’s parting words and seeing Ron again, she’d made peace with her role in all of this. And with that peace, the acceptance that this was bigger than just her, came  _ power _ .

And something told her that Voldemort had yet to see anything like the power she harnessed before. 

“Granger?” At the inquisitive quirk of Theo's brow, Hermione smiled, the action slowly unfurling along her lips. She waltzed towards him, threaded her hand through the crook of his arm and led him to the clearing that Malfoy had chosen.

She met Malfoy’s eyes, waving her hand in an arc. Before them, the tent sprang to life, erecting itself in a matter of moments. With another wave of her hand, a pit had been dug in the earth, a fire without kindling lighting in its depth and burning hot. The magic danced within her, melding with her natural talent and settling into her comfortably, no longer a separate entity but a part of her very being. For the first time in months, she felt hope. “And it’s all about to change again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Alpha love to the wonderful LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13_   
> 
> 
> _Beta loves to tofadeawayagain_   
> 
> 
> _Have a lovely week!_   
> 


	23. Six of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Tuesday, loves. As always, thank you to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13 for their alpha work. A thousand beta hugs to tofadeawayagain for taking my mess and making it pretty. You all rock, and without you I'd fall apart.

**Chapter 23 -** _**Six of Pentacles** _

Screaming echoed in Hermione's ears and she couldn't make out where it came from, no matter how many times she jerked her head from side to side. Smoke—or was it fog?—filled the air around her, hung heavy in her lungs, and though she tried to breathe through it, each frantic breath came shorter and shorter until she was gasping shallowly and black spots danced before her eyes.

She needed to get somewhere, to find something, but her feet were heavy, each step sluggish and slow as if they were weighed down by anchors. Though she trudged forward, the world seemed to tunnel around her until the screaming blasted down an elongated hallway lit by flickering lights or flames.

And she knew, no matter how hard she ran, no matter how far she went, she'd be too late to help them. She'd never be able to stop the screaming.

Glancing at her feet, her heart stuttered. She had meant to rid herself of the chains slowing her pace and instead found she trudged through a river of blood, the congealed mass clinging around her feet like ankle weights. Beneath the surface, she could see—  _gods_ , she could see that the lumps she'd waded through were bodies littering the surface, and she bit back a strangled cry. Her stomach flipped sourly, tightening and twisting behind her navel. Clasping a bloodied hand to her mouth, Hermione flinched away from her own touch, the stench of iron and decay overwhelming, as she inspected the blood staining her fingers and caking under her fingernails.

With a sob, Hermione sucked a breath in to shout, to encourage them to come to her—to at least meet her in the middle. When she opened her mouth, the scream that came out was inhuman and feral, but she realised with sudden clarity that the scream was her own.

And then, a hand wrapped around her shoulder, and Hermione whirled to stare into endless grey depths watching her pensively.

Finally, the spell broke, and she wrenched herself upright, sweat drenching her body as she drew in frantic breaths. Her throat felt mangled from the screams that had no doubt tore loose during her nightmare, and it took several moments for her heart to calm enough to register the hand that had tethered her in the dream still held fast to her wrist.

Malfoy crouched beside her camp bed. Other than a slight downturn of his lips, his expression was void of any emotion. Hermione stared at the way his cool, clean hand cupped her arm gently, and after a moment, he loosened his hold a finger at a time. "You were screaming."

Hermione inclined her head, biting back the sharp retort that sprang to her tongue. Instead she stared resolutely forward, reaching down to disentangle the sheets that had wrapped around her ankles. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing you need to worry about."

Staring back at her for a few long blinks, Malfoy took a moment to respond, letting his hand fall between his crouched legs, fingertips weaving together as he contemplated her. "I know. When you sleep…"

He didn't continue, instead flattening his lips into a line as he stared first at the blanket and then toward Theo's cot. Hermione followed his gaze, eyes snagging on Theo's round blue eyes staring back at her and then to Malfoy with a flicker of his brows. She grit her teeth and turned to look at Malfoy, sighing. "When I sleep  _what,_ Malfoy?"

The pale wizard loosened a heavy sigh, staring at his fingers when he spoke. "When you sleep, your Occlumency shields falter, and I—"

A flush bloomed to life beneath the shirt she'd transfigured, and she swallowed thickly at his implication. He'd seen her dream, she supposed, and when she peered at him out of the the corner of her eyes and he refused to meet her gaze, her suspicion was confirmed. "Right. Well, sorry to wake you."

Malfoy shook his head. "I wasn't sleeping." At that, he rested his palms on his knees, using them to push himself upright.

His joints popped as he stood, a grimace colouring his face, and for some reason, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. Maybe it was because he'd woken her from her nightmare, or maybe it was because she recognised that grimace of pain from Harry's face on their many cold nights on the run, but she barely registered the thought before words were coming out of her mouth. "I could brew a potion to help with that."

Before her, Malfoy froze, and she saw Theo's brows shoot even higher on his forehead beside her. When Malfoy glanced back at her, his gaze was conflicted. "Why?"

Hermione shook her head, rearranging the blankets comfortably over her outstretched legs and settling with her back to them. When she was sure that he couldn't see that tears that rolled down her cheeks at his sudden likeness to her lost friend, she answered, "Does there have to be a reason?"

She laid down again, listening as the boys settled into their cots behind her, but Hermione didn't sleep again. Instead, she concentrated on the chirping of crickets and the rustling of the trees as the wind swayed them outside the tent. She counted Theo's breaths and measured them as they spaced and evened, signaling his descent into sleep yet again. She did absolutely anything she could to ignore Malfoy's gaze boring into her back as she pretended to sleep.

And maybe it the feeling of his eyes on her that drove the images projected on the backs of her eyelids like a film she had no desire to watch, but Hermione couldn't stop the memories from assaulting her. One, above all the others, lingered at the forefront of her mind, and she couldn't find the energy to outrun them.

Zabini's brutish laughter dredged up from the past, a ghostly harbinger of the memory. The woman's blank gaze stared up at the sky, her lips turned down in a pleading frown. She was pretty, even as covered in dirt and grime as she was, and Hermione desperately wished she knew her name, any name, just so she could properly mourn the woman.

It was difficult to come to terms with killing the woman, even by accident, when she'd lashed out at Zabini. In trying to save the woman, she'd become the thing which disgusted her most.

She didn't subscribe the old adage that war turned even the most kind-hearted people sour; she'd always believed that morals would hold strong despite despite being surrounded by horror. But that moment had proven her wrong. In her single-minded desire to break Zabini, she'd broken herself and another in the process.

A cold rush of fear curled around her again, wrapping her in its harsh embrace and dampening her resolve. But before she could allow herself to sink into that pit of despair again, she felt it. A nudging at her carefully erected walls. She bristled at the intrusion, reinforcing them silently, bolstering the Occlumency shield that shrouded her thoughts. Sitting upright on her cot, she threw a glare over her shoulder at Malfoy, just barely catching the approving lilt of his lips before she gathered her blanket around her and went to start the fire.

After a few moments of stoking, the tent flaps fluttered behind her and Malfoy emerged. He watched silently for a few moments as she prodded it with frustrated huffs, before he said, "We'll need to get supplies soon."

Hermione settled to onto a rug near the fire, wrapping her blanket tightly around her shoulders as she stared into the flame. "I know." She sucked her lip between her teeth, rolling the meat of it lightly between them before she continued. "I'll talk to Greyback today."

The first batch of Wolfsbane had been successful—or so she assumed it was because she was still breathing and Greyback had been in a marginally better mood after the full moon. Hermione refused to think about what providing him the potion meant, and so she resolutely ignored the persistent worry that festered in her stomach.

Offering her a mechanical nod, Malfoy turned, making toward the tent when he paused. "I hope you know what you're doing, Granger."

She blinked once, allowing herself a moment to breathe before responding. "So do I."

Around her, the sounds of the camp awakening bloomed to life. Load groans emerged from the tents of those on first patrol, and she could see tendrils of smoke curling from the campfires nearer the center of the clearing. In the distance, she could see lights beginning to illuminate the windows of Hogwarts, early risers starting their day before classes. Or maybe it was a Hogsmeade weekend; truth be told, she'd lost track of the days since they'd arrived in the camps. Part of her hoped that as many of the students as possible went to Hogsmeade to escape the oppressive looming of the castle.

"Today's the day?" A tentative hand landed on her shoulder, and Hermione reached her free hand up, laying it on Theo's. It had become rote, one of the few measures of familiarity they had established to display their faux relationship. Now, though, Hermione was startled at the small measure of comfort the display brought her. Above her, Theo offered her a crooked, reassuring smile.

She stared off into the distance, allowing her hand to drop from Theo's and thread in her lap. "Today's the day."

Theo released her and settled beside her with a low hum. Hermione stoked the fire once more, turning the small container of dried meat she'd found in their supply to cook them thoroughly. "You'll be alright."

She snorted indelicately. "Easy enough for you to say; you don't have to ask Greyback for a favour  _and then_  complete that journey with someone who hates you for something you can't control."

"I don't hate you."

Both Theo and Hermione jumped, turning to stare at Malfoy exiting the tent. The tension was palpable as neither of them made eye contact, and thankfully Theo broke the silence. "It's a mission, and it's important. For the cause." His voice was low, significance plain in the phrase.

Hermione found she was desperate for that reassurance. But he'd come up with the phrase to let her know that he hadn't forgotten, and he brought it up often when they were given free reign to walk outside the edges of the camp during the hour that Greyback allotted them.

Though Malfoy often came with them, he usually hung back a few paces. The short sentence was more than he usually spoke to her, and she sat debated the merits of snapping back at him. Although she was beginning to trust Theo more, she still couldn't be sure where Malfoy's loyalties lay.

But something told her to wait, to listen, to observe.

Hermione rose to her feet, her knees creaking in protest at the cold around them, discarding the blanket in a heap before the fire. With a roll of her shoulders, she disappeared into the tent, scanning the threadbare contents as she went.

Despite everything, Hermione found that she'd come to think of the canvas walls as a semblance of a home, and she was startled into a stop as she observed the table where discarded game of chess sat from the last time she and Theo had abandoned it. But she didn't allow herself to dwell on it, shoving the thoughts back as she opened a trunk beneath her cot, pulling out the crimson garb she'd stowed upon their arrival.

The filmy red material of her Vehme robe slid between her fingertips, and Hermione studied it with a sharp twist to her mouth. Confliction warred in her stomach as she drew the cloak around her shoulders and tied it in a knot beneath her chin. She stood again, allowing the fabric to swirl around her ankles as she gathered her courage and steeled her nerves.

When she swept out of the tent with a determined tilt to her chin, she didn't allow her gaze to settle on either Theo or Malfoy. Instead, she charged through the camp. When she neared its centre, she paused, eyeing the two tents that now took up the majority of the previously open area.

The newest was Ron's, an outlandishly lavish tent made of the same crimson fabric of their robes. Dark marks were embroidered in the fabric, and Hermione fought the shudder that wended around her spine at the sight.

Instead of allowing herself to linger, she turned on her heel, making for Greyback's tent and ducking inside as his guards begrudgingly held the flaps open for her.

The werewolf sat before the fire, a long pipe held lazily between his fingertips as sweet smoke filled the air. When his gaze landed on Hermione, he withdrew the pipe from his lips, exhaling a long, hazy breath before he inclined his head at the pillows littering the floor. "Sit."

Hermione obliged, lifted the cloak behind her and settling on a pillow comfortably enough that he might not suspect her wariness. He eyed her over the top of the table for a long moment before he spoke. "The Wolfsbane worked well the last time—better than most other I've had."

Hermione inclined her head at the veiled compliment. "I had a good professor." It was true; Lupin had always told her that the effectiveness of the potion relied on the proficiency of the brewer, and she'd had lots of practice.

Greyback waved his hand away at her comment, taking another drag of his pipe as she watched. "You want something."

Fear wormed its way into her chest at his comment, and she allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts. "As I told you last time, I'm out of aconite." She took a deep breath, finally meeting his keen stare across from her. "Malfoy and I need to find them; there's only a week before I'll need to begin brewing again."

She expected the werewolf to put up a fight, to renege on his deal, but the sharp tightening at the corner of his eyes and slight twitch of his fingers betrayed the fierce desire he had for the potion. When he looked at her, Hermione twitched backward at the slight gold sheen in his eyes, the feral look her fixed her with. "When do you need to go?" His voice was a low growl.

Slowly, calculations began to unfurl in her mind as she realised suddenly just how much power she held over the werewolf, and she leaned forward, her wand sliding back into the holster at her hip as a conniving smile spread across her face. "I believe tonight would be of most use." She crossed her arms, watching the frantic darting of his eyes around the tent, landing on her jugular vein the extended position displayed prominently. "In case we can't find the ingredients." A thought occurred to her and she continued, "Maybe Nott ought to come as well; the more eyes, the better."

When he exhaled on a shaky breath, Hermione knew she had him and allowed herself a triumphant grin.

Moments later, she exited the tent, victory bouying her steps as she returned to the tent to relay the plan to Theo and Malfoy.

* * *

Hours later, Hermione stood outside the tent waiting for Malfoy to emerge. Greyback had told the rest of the camp that they were being sent on an extra patrol due to some intel he'd received from another field team, and Hermione could feel the eyes of the other Death Eaters watching them closely as Malfoy emerged.

They began their trek toward the edge of the camp, the sun set at their backs, and no words passing between them. Even as they left the camp behind and trekked toward the treeline, they refused to speak.

It was a cold night, the air biting on a harsh wind, and Hermione drew her cloak tight even as she cast a warming spell around them. Theo looked at her with wordless thanks as Malfoy trudged along beside them.

Finally, when they broke the treeline, Malfoy cleared his throat beside him, voice still carefully low as he looked over his shoulder toward where they came from. "Where are we going?"

Hermione frowned, gazing at the thick of the trees around them. With a kick to the ground, she finally responded. "I hadn't made it that far."

With a quiet swear, Malfoy looked at her incredulously. "What do you mean you haven't made it that far? Granger we—"

"I've got an idea," Theo interrupted, gazing into the distance with a pensive expression. With an impatient wave of his hand, he gestured both of them close, wrapping his hand around their wrists. Before Hermione could protest or ask where he was going, they were whirling across plains and colour was swirling—

And then it wasn't.

They jolted to the ground quickly, and both she and Draco stumbled slightly, though they both regained their balance quickly. When Hermione gained her bearings, she looked around them, jaw dropping when she realized where they were.

Around them, Hermione recognised the familiar storefronts of Hogsmeade. What shocked her more than seeing the little village for the first time in months, though, were the lights strung along the roofs, the merry Yule wreaths decorating the door fronts, and a gasp that bordered on a sob slipped unbidden from her. "It's  _Christmas._ "

Beside her, Theo released their hands, shaking his head slightly at her. "Not Christmas, but nearly so." He began walking up the empty street, his stride long and pace harried as he kept his head down. Draco, too, kept his head down as they walked, but Hermione couldn't contain the emotions whirling within her at the familiar buildings. Snow decorated their rooftops, and the idyllic tranquillity of the village was almost enough to allow her to forget the war that raged outside of its limits.

Hogsmeade had always seemed more magical than other wizarding communities to Hermione, and this visit—no matter the circumstances—reminded her of that.

After traipsing through the village, leading them on a wending path through side streets that Hermione was sure were designed to lose anyone that had managed to tail them, Theo led them to the back door of the Three Broomsticks, and pounded a few rhythmic, wrapping knocks on the oak surface.

Several moments passed, but no one answered the door. Hermione shuffled nervously, glancing over her shoulder at all the windows that faced them, the many shadowed doorways in which someone could hide. As she opened her mouth to voice her discomfort, though, the door opened inward to shadows with a whiny squeak.

From within the depths of the shadows, Madam Rosmerta emerged, wand drawn and determination lining her face. Her gaze landed first on Malfoy, her expression pinching tighter before it turned to Theo and softened infinitesimally. "What do you want?" Then, finally, it landed on Hermione and her jaw fell slack, her wand falling to her side. "Hermione? Is that you?"

The other witch moved to step forward, whether to embrace her or strike her, Hermione wasn't sure, but Theo stepped between them, an apologetic lilt to his lips. "Sorry, Rosmerta, we don't have much time, and certainly not enough for a reunion. We need to make this quick."

The woman's gaze softened on Theo for a half a moment before they turned steely with resolve. A shake of her head sent Hermione's hopes plummeting to the depths of her stomach in a heap, and before she could stop herself, she rushed forward, wrapping a hand around the woman's upper up. "Please."

Time seemed to suspend between them as Rosmerta stared first at Hermione's hand and then met her gaze, studying her carefully. Whatever she saw must have been enough, because she stepped aside. Suspicion lingered in her gaze, but she ushered them into the back room of the pub, levelling a severe look at Malfoy as he passed the threshold. Once the door was shut behind them, Hermione watched as Rosmerta waved her hand at the padlocks covering the door, each one sliding shut and then finally a glimmering white shield shimmering to life overtop them. When the witch was satisfied that they were safely within, she lead them to a scarred dining table tucked away in the kitchen.

As they settled around the table, Hermione marveled at how small the woman's quarters were. The Three Broomsticks wasn't a large inn by any means, but it was easily triple the size of the living space; from her vantage point in the corner, Hermione could see the small, single stove and handful of cabinets on one wall, a worn rocking chair with a tall stack of worn  _Witch Weekly_ issues, and a small window with the shades drawn closed just behind it. Beyond that, a door led to a miniscule washroom and adjacent bedroom.

Rosmerta followed her gaze, smiling in understanding. "It's not much, but it's home."

The words lodged in the space beneath her ribs, and Hermione smiled weakly in return as she remembered the same phrase from Ron. But quickly, Theo drew her gaze when he braced his elbows on the tabletop. "Rosmerta, we need your help. We need aconite, and I know you have it; you know how rare it is, and I hate to ask—" his gaze cut to Malfoy, and Hermione saw a hint of cold accusation in it "—but I don't know where else to turn."

The woman eyed him from the stove, preparing a kettle for tea. She waved a wand and cheese cloth settled over three chipped mugs, loose leafed tea following, and she glared down at it, far too concentrated than the task called for. With a steady hand from her years as a barmaid, Rosmerta directed cups to float to them on the air whilst she carried the kettle and a plate of sweets to them. She set them down with a heavy sigh, frowning down at them. "Theo, I don't—"

"Please." It was as close to pleading as she'd ever heard the wizard, and Hermione wondered idly at the significance of Theo and Rosmerta's relationship.

A beat passed, during which Rosmerta worried the hem of the faded linen jumper that hung from her frame. When she finally pulled the chair out and wilted into it, her age seemed to sink into the fine lines of her face. With a deep inhale, Rosmerta started, "I haven't actively searched for aconite for nearly ten years." She eyed Theo strangely, and when he gestured her onward with a jerky nod, Rosemerta met Hermione's gaze. "Not since my sister—Theodore's mother—was murdered by her husband during a full moon."

The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room as Hermione swung her gaze to Theo, taking in the pallor of his face before she spoke. "Your mother was—"

He ran a shaking hand through his hair as Malfoy watched on, no doubt having known the confession he was about to share. "My mother was a werewolf; Greyback's progeny."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: if you don't like this fic, that's okay. Really, I don't begrudge you your opinion. But please refrain from eviscerating my writing and just quietly go. Thank you to those of you who continue to leave such lovely notes for me to come back to. You all make every needlessly rude review worth it.


	24. Three of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday means another update. I'm sorry this one is a bit late; my dog was being cute and I got distracted lol. Shoutout to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13 for their alpha work on this chapter! In addition, a million thank yous to tofadeawayagain, my brilliant beta who works through my mess so well and makes things pretty. I appreciate all three of your endless dedication to working on my words with me. And thank you, lovely readers, for being so amazing!

**Chapter 24 -** _**Three of Pentacles** _

Hermione stared between them, waiting for one of them to laugh, to jeer at her for being so gullible, but Theo looked down at his hands again. His face seemed to drain of any remaining colour; his deadly serious expression was the only thing that forced her mouth closed so she could speak. "But  _how_?"

Malfoy answered for him. "She dared to defy her husband; Thoros said that she made Theo—"

"—too soft, too weak, too  _feminine._ " Theo spit out the last word as though it was dirty. "Because I liked to laugh and smile; I didn't thunder up and down the stairs and break things when angry." His voice was quiet, his eyes glazed as he was lost in memories. "I had a burst of accidental magic when I was four; I shattered one of his favorite vases." A hollow laugh slipped out of him. "And she helped me clean it up, told me the importance of working through one's emotions."

Draco drummed his fingers on the countertop. "And Thoros didn't like that, so he wanted to teach her a lesson."

Silence stretched out between them as Hermione tried and failed to wrestle the horror that creeped into the well of her stomach. "So he… he turned Greyback on her?" she whispered, barely audible even to her own ears.

Theo smiled sadly, and Rosmerta clasped his hand across the table. "She wasn't supposed to survive, but… the Fawley women don't give up quite so easily." She eyed Theo. "Selene escaped to live with me while she acclimated to the change. I brewed her Wolfsbane potion for the duration of the year. Until…"

Theo sucked in a breath before he finished her sentence. "Until my father discovered that she was alive and captured her during the full moon." His voice was monotone, stare locked on the table before him as a dull roaring rose in Hermione's ears, begging him not to finish the story and subject himself to the memories. "He caged her up, wrapped her wrists in shackles of silver, even as she stared at me with those eyes that proved she was still my  _mother_." His voice broke on the last word and he angrily dashed a tear away. "He made me watch. He killed her in front of me and he made me watch."

Fury rose up in Hermione, that her friend had been forced to watch his mother die before him, and she didn't stop the frisson of magic that crackled down her arm and into her curled fingertips. Her nails dug into her skin as she watched him crumple into himself for a moment, and the sheer agony in his posture reaffirmed what she'd come to suspect.

Somewhere along the way, she'd started to trust Theo, despite her proclaimed reservations when she spoke to the man. Watching him fall apart, even briefly, was a punch in the gut she hadn't expected. She clasped his hand across the table, encasing the shaking limb with warmth that she summoned from the volatile magic raging within her. "Theo, I'm sorry."

He nodded once and turned to Rosmerta. "What's done is done. But we need your help to get Wolfsbane, Rosmerta. And you're not going to like the reason why, but—" he paused, considering Hermione. "I trust Hermione."

The woman's eyes narrowed before she extracted her hands from Theo's, and when she leaned back in the chair to watch Hermione with a calculated stare, all inclinations that Rosmerta was simply a barkeep fell away. The woman was every inch a Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood. She was calculating, precise, and had more tricks up her sleeve than she ever let on. "I presume you'll give me some kind of explanation?"

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, shooting Malfoy a glance out of the corner of her eye. Despite the unobtrusive movement, Malfoy still caught the look and frowned at her. "Really, Granger? I know I've not done much to prove my loyalty, but for Merlin's sake. If you can trust Theo, you can trust me."

Indecision warred within her. The truth was she  _didn't_ trust Malfoy—not in the slightest—but Theo's steady, quiet presence had done more to gain her trust than anything, and if he trusted Malfoy…

Somewhere within, a voice that was strangely akin to Narcissa's whispered at her to trust her instincts, that they wouldn't lead her astray, and so she spoke, bolstered by the fledgling trust she was putting in Malfoy.

She knew how it would sound, and as she parted her lips to answer Rosmerta, her eyes fluttered closed. "I need to brew Wolfsbane for Fenrir Greyback."

Indignation flared in Rosmerta's eyes, and the woman's jaw fell slack, opening and closing a few times before she found her voice. "What in the name of  _Merlin_  are you doing brewing potions for that monster?"

Hermione's hands shot up, the gesture placating as she tried to defend her position. "Harry's  _dead_ , Rosmerta. You know that, the whole wizarding world knows that. The Order of the Phoenix has fallen. We're— _they're_  all scattered in the wind." The blunt statements lodged in her throat, and Hermione tried to clear it of emotion before continuing. "I was captured by the Vehme. I thought I was dead… in a way, I did die. Everything I thought I knew has changed." With a flex of her wrist, she allowed a wave of magic to dance in her hand, the light and shadows within it wending around one another. She continued even as the other woman gasped quietly and continued. "Magic isn't so black and white anymore."

Her gaze flickered to Theo, watching her with grim determination, and then to Malfoy, who seemed to have settled into reluctant admiration. "They changed me." A shudder roiled over her, a film of tears ghosting over her eyes before she blinked them away. "I'm more than they could have ever imagined. More than they have any sense to fear. And I'm going to destroy them." She looked between the men again. "All of them."

Rosmerta's wide-eyed gaze returned to her face, studying her seriously for a moment before a flicker of understanding flashed behind her eyes. "The prophecy."

With a slight inclination of her head, Hermione continued. "The first month's potion was enough to last him the week before the cycle so he could maintain his faculties even when shifted. It's not much, and he didn't offer much in return. Time, mostly. Time with Theo and Draco, to leave the camp and gather supplies, to plan."

Silence stretched on for a few long beats. "What do you need from me?"

Internally, Hermione sagged with relief. "Greyback has placed some measure of trust in me. So have his guards, whether they believe it or not. They'll allow me into the tent... allow me to give him his potion."

Rosmerta watched her carefully, brows raised. Theo and Malfoy's gaze were heavy on her, their skepticism an unwelcome weight.

She cleared her throat, growing warm under the collar of her cloak despite her planning. "If everything goes according to plan, he won't leave his tent alive again."

Across from her, Malfoy rolled his eyes, banging his elbows down on the table with a loud thump that made them all jump. "Quit meddling around the mandrake, Granger.  _What_  are you doing?"

She lifted her shoulder in a shrug but couldn't contain the blush that seared her cheeks when she answered. "It's quite simple, really. Just a little bit more aconite than the recipe calls for and—"

"And you'll poison him," Rosmerta whispered, understanding dawning on her face. "It's  _genius_. Add just enough aconite that the potion won't discolour, and he'll be dead before he finishes the first vial."

A begrudging respect passed over Malfoy's face before he schooled it back into a careful blank mask. "How do you know he won't suspect anything?"

"He's desperate." The simple truth slipped from her tongue. "When I brought him the last batch, he was fixated, jumpy, but still gruff. Before we left today, he was shaky, glassy-eyed. He fears giving up control to the wolf; he'll do anything to get that potion, and I don't think he'll question the preparation if we're careful."

Theo whistled, low and long, but he ran a hand thoughtfully over his jaw. "It'll work. It's risky, but it'll work."

Malfoy stared at the table, drumming his fingers still on the table. "They'll know. There's no way to prove it—not if it's brewed just right—but they'll immediately be suspicious if you're the last person to see him alive." His grey gaze pierced her. "Granger, it's very likely that you could die for this."

Though she'd known that it was a possibility, a very high  _probability_ , even, the stark truth in his tone sent a jolt of fear so true it crowded in her chest and restricted her breath for a moment. But a glance at the Theo and then Rosmerta reaffirmed Hermione's commitment to the task. "I know. That's why we have to time this just right."

The harsh screech of a chair being pushed back startled Hermione, and suddenly Rosmerta was up and crossing the room, waving her wand and summoning food from the Three Broomsticks' pantry. With a resigned set to her shoulders, Rosmerta smiled wickedly at them. "No good plans are ever made on an empty stomach."

Before she could wave her wand though, Theo lifted his hand, a sharp slant to his brows. "Why, Granger? Why are you risking yourself for this? Why Greyback?"

Her breath caught in her throat, warring with the hundreds of reasons that chased themselves through her mind. For Harry, for Luna, for Theo's mother, even though she'd never met her. Even for Ron, as absurd as it seemed now. But the truth of it sprung to the surface, remembered helplessness that had been her companion in the cellar a sharp barb in her side. "Voldemort let me out of the cage, into his ranks. He thinks he won." She leveled her gaze at the table. "Greyback is just the first and easiest pawn to fall."

A beat of silence passed, during which she looked up at Theo, whose gaze was shuttered. Tension hung between them, the first real strain she'd felt since the newly-forged alliance with him, before he broke it with a terse nod and Rosmerta resumed action.

As pots and pans whirled around them, Hermione sucked her lip between her teeth, biting down hard enough to draw the tang of blood. The frenzy of the kitchen, the warm smell of bread baking to perfection filling the air around them, reminded her painfully of Hogwarts and, even more brutal a realisation, the Burrow.

Part of her mourned for that lost life as Rosmerta set a simple meal of biscuits and cooked chicken before them, and Hermione dug in wordlessly as she avoided eye contact with those around her. After several moments of utensils clanking on plates, Malfoy spoke. "What do you propose, Granger?"

She set her fork aside with a light clatter. After a sip of pumpkin juice, she leveled her stare at the boys. "It's not perfect, but it'll do." She leaned forward, cracking her knuckles as she spoke, the nervous tick a habit from all her time stretching tired fingers out after long evenings in the library. "I'll boil the potion over the next week—of course, it'll need to be closely monitored to make sure it doesn't go too far; that means I'll need both of you to keep an eye on it as well." Theo and Malfoy nodded their assent. "Malfoy, if I remember correctly from Slughorn's class, you were quite proficient in potions."

Theo snorted. "Proficient? He would have been top of the class if not for Voldemort's task and Potter's ruddy book."

Hermione ignored the pain that echoed through her at Harry's name and ploughed onward. "When it's prepared, I'll separate it into vials, just like last time. I'll arrange to bring it to his tent the first day of the week before the full moon."

Theo nodded. "And then it won't be suspicious if the camp doesn't see him for a while; he tends to become more secretive the week leading up to the moon and during the change."

Malfoy's drumming stopped and he allowed her a rare lilt of a smile, though she wasn't sure if she could even call it such when his lips barely twitched upward. "I knew there was a reason she was a swot in school, Nott." He clapped his friend on the back. "You're sure it'll work?

"No, but it's the best plan we've got; unless you have anything better?" When she was met with silence, she continued, eyeing Theo again. "If at any point either of you see red sparks, we need to get out. There's a beaded bag that I keep under my cot; it has an undetectable extension charm cast on it, and within it are all my potions ingredients, books, anything we might need. I suggest you create one of your own as well." She grit her teeth, already dreading the next words out of her mouth. "In the meantime, Malfoy, I need you to help me train."

His eyebrows shot up on his forehead.

With a sigh, she said, "My Occlumency isn't as good as it could be; you've been aware of that in the tent, I'm sure." At his terse nod, she continued. "You're a skilled Legilimens. Teach me how to block it."

"I feel like this prefaces another poorly laid plan," Theo mused, watching her closely.

Hermione grimaced. "You're not wrong, but you're also not right." She looked between them. "If Malfoy can rifle through my memories so easily, that means anyone can. And…" She paused, weighing her words. "It's no secret between us that things have changed since we met with Narcissa. This magic… it's not like any other magic I've wielded. It's old, and it has a mind of its own half the time. I can't continue this charade without learning how to handle it."

"And what does this have to do with me teaching you Occlumency, Granger?" Malfoy questioned slowly.

She stared down at her hands. "Harry taught me most of what I know, but it centered mostly on keeping people out…"

"As is typically done with Occlumency," Theo supplied.

When she looked up at Malfoy, she saw the understanding in his eyes before she finished her statement for the benefit of the others. "He never taught me how to keep myself  _in._ " A deep breath. "I need to be able to compartmentalise. It worked, for a while, hiding behind the rage and fury this magic seems to bring with it, but now… now I can feel it again. I remember all the things I buried so deep within and it  _hurts_  and the magic just goes haywire."

Malfoy held her gaze, even as his hands wrapped tightly around the teacup that sat on the saucer before him, the only indication of his nerves. "Granger, what you're asking to learn is—"

"Hard? Dangerous? I'm aware, thank you," she replied curtly. "But it's necessary. Even if this doesn't last long, I put us all in danger when I allow myself to steep in those thoughts, even in the tent, even briefly when I sleep." She stood, pacing alongside the table and cracking her neck to release the tension, to work some of the energy out of her. "It'll be worth it, in the end."

No one responded. After a moment, the rest of the chairs screeched as they were pushed out, and Hermione knew that they'd somehow taken her pacing as an indication that their time had worn out.

Rosmerta rose last, casting a furtive glance at the curtained window before she knelt beside the rocking chair, slid the stack of books out of the way, and muttered a quiet spell that revealed a false board, which she popped loose. From within, she withdrew a vial much like the one Remus had given her. Four small bundles of aconite were sealed inside, and Hermione tried to stop the runaway beat of her heart from exploding through her chest.

When the woman stopped before Hermione, she was sure that Rosmerta could hear every last pound of her heart tattooing her fear on her ribcage, but the woman paid no mind. Instead, she lifted Hermione's hand and slipped the vial into her hand. Rosmerta closed Hermione's hand over the vial and squeezed it once. "Make them regret everything."

The motherly tone in Rosmerta's voice splintered Hermione's heart, and she swallowed the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. "That's the plan."

"Good." And then Rosmerta swept Theo into a tight hug, and Hermione could see the gentle movements of her lips as she whispered in his ear.

She stood awkwardly next to Malfoy, shifting from foot to foot at the sudden realisation that they'd been gone far longer than she anticipated; when Theo joined them moments later, they all turned to the door, filing out one by one after Malfoy gave the all clear.

A soft hand on her elbow drew Hermione pause, and she tossed an expectant look over her shoulder. Rosmerta frowned down at her, the look a heavy weight on Hermione as the woman studied the cloak clipped firmly around her neck. "I hope you know what you're doing, Hermione." The woman's age again showed in the fine lines that etched at the corners of her eyes as she squinted into Hermione's face. "You're a good kid—a good  _witch_ ," she amended.

Hermione didn't know how to respond, but she was saved from replying when Rosmerta continued. "And thank you… for helping Theo, and even Malfoy." The other woman watched Malfoy's back, competing emotions stirring in her eyes. "The boy's done a lot wrong, but… he's doing what he can now to right it." A conspiratorial grin split across her face, and she eyed Hermione. "Give him a chance to prove his worth. Let him atone for some of the things he was forced into."

Something swooped low in Hermione's stomach, a sinking feeling that was all too familiar, and she didn't respond. She slipped from the witch's grip, her cloak sliding through Rosmerta's fingertips as she, Theo, and Malfoy began the walk back to Apparition point, snow swirling around them and blocking the Three Broomsticks from view behind them.

As soon as they arrived back at camp, Hermione set to work brewing the Wolfsbane. She approached it with the same precision as last time, counting each stir. She'd surmised that the extra aconite could be added last, to keep it the freshest and strongest she could, and she'd cast a stasis charm on the vial.

An extra precaution she was sure wasn't necessary, but she couldn't refrain from doing so to silence the doubt in her mind.

_This had to work._

* * *

Theo, Malfoy, and Hermione had traipsed outside the camp under the guise of reinforcing the boundary magic that Greyback had cast-no one questioned it after seeing the way his fingers trembled every time he picked up his wand.

Malfoy sat with his head canted back against an aging tree, staring up through the brittle branches at the cloud-peppered sky above.

She approached slowly, observing the way his fingers clenched and unclenched despite the near-perfect blank stare he'd affected. When she reached the tree, she settled across from him, coiling her legs beneath her. "So, how do we do this?"

"Why me?"

Hermione shrugged. "You're the only person I know and have a modicum of trust in to turn to at the moment who is a skilled Legilimens. I told you that."

Malfoy laughed hollowly. "You've got the affect down, Granger. Nose up, haughty stare, short temper. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were the picture perfect pure-blood witch. Breaks those who don't give her what she wants."

An image of his friend, broken and sightless, flashed before her eyes before she could stop it.

"Stop." Draco's voice, both commanding and pleading, across from her.

They'd developed an uneasy comraderie since meeting with Rosmerta, and Hermione grit her teeth at the command that stopped the memories dead. Across from her, he grimaced a bit, but she could tell it was more at the faux pas than regret as he cleared his throat. "You've got to bury it, Granger. Whatever it takes, you have to be able to let it go."

"Easier said than done, Malfoy." Her tone was snappy, and he recoiled a bit from the sharp edge of it. "You didn't kill your best friend." She'd meant it to be sharper than it came out, but the sympathy that creased his forehead and the sudden sinking in her stomach betrayed her.

Malfoy nodded a bit, following her gaze to the castle in the distance. "I didn't. But I've done things I regret." She bit the inside of her cheek when she saw him tip his head to study her. "There are memories that I try to avoid. Whole swaths of time where I was forced to carry out actions that made me hate myself."

This was dangerous territory, events between them that Hermione hadn't expected to ever address. She swallowed thickly and looked at him. "I'm not forgiving you."

Mafloy nodded, staring at the ground between them. "I'm not asking you to, Granger." His chest rose with a deep breath, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "There's a lot you still don't know. A lot  _I_ still don't know."

The air was crowded with questions she wanted to ask, explanations she deserved hidden within it, but she waited him out, determined to make him give them to her. She refused to beg.

When he wrung his hands together and looked at her again, his gaze was earnest. The expression softened the hard planes of his face and Hermione started a bit, realising for the first time since they'd been classmates that he was quite handsome when he wasn't being all hard edges and the pure-blood prince he'd been raised as. The thought itself was a betrayal, though, and she shoved it aside as she watched him.

His breath gusted out, and she barely caught his confession. "I'm sorry for it all, Granger. I wish I could go back, could find a time turner and rewind it all, get you and Potter and—Merlin, even Weasley—out of that castle before it all went to shite."

The confession was too much for her to process, and she stood, dropping her hands uselessly at her sides. When his gaze snapped to hers, she spoke, harried and flustered. "Not here, Malfoy. Not now." She paused, eyeing the shadows warily. "I—I don't know what it is you're looking for, but I can't give it to you now. Maybe not ever."

His face closed before her, the openness in it vanishing as she spun away toward the camp.

What in Merlin's name had just happened?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Tuesday!


	25. Reversed Knight of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! We're officially at the halfway point of this fic, give or take a couple chapters. Thanks for sticking around long enough to make it to the end of part two! As always, love to my incredible alphas LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13. My beta is also a rockstar, and you should all go read her WIP, which I can vouch is incredible. Go give tofadeawayagain all the love!

**Chapter 25 -** _**Reversed Knight of Swords** _

The days blended into each other without reprieve. Hogwarts was an ever-present weight on her shoulders as it loomed behind the camp; Hermione tried not to gaze at it too longingly, too mournfully, but a week after they set up camp, she allowed herself to stare at its spires through the fog of morning without the pretense of time.

So much of her formative years had occurred within those walls, and now she wanted nothing more than to find a time turner, go back to her first year, and soak up the innocence she'd been unaware of then. Trolls in dungeons, Polyjuice Potion in abandoned toilets, three-headed dogs in forbidden chambers... the harsh light of war made her crave the outlandish events at Hogwarts more than she ever thought she would.

When smoke started to rise from one of the spires—Gryffindor tower, the one she'd loved longest and truest—Hermione turned away and returned to the cold ashes of the boys' fire.

She snorted with derision in the early morning light.  _The boys_. How that phrase's significance had changed over the last few months. Harry and Ron had once been the only boys that had mattered. Harry was her best friend, and Ron… she'd naively thought that they'd make it through the war and maybe she'd make good on all those tumultuous adolescent feelings she'd wrestled with for so long. Looking back, she couldn't help but see the Ron he was now, lurking inside him even then.

She didn't love him; she never had, and war had made that all too clear. He'd been her friend, and a crush by default.

Now  _the boys_ meant Theo and Malfoy… Draco? She'd developed an easy camaraderie with Theo; he was quick-witted and sharp, but not in a way that was threatening. Instead, he seemed protective of her beyond the necessary promise he'd made Luna. Theo often talked to her late into the night, when the nightmares threatened, and he helped her hold them at bay. It helped that he told her stories of Luna she'd never heard before.

It made her feel normal. It made her forget that they were surrounded by Death Eaters on all sides. Most of all, it made her forget that she was constantly playing a part. Around Theo, Hermione didn't have to pretend to be strong.

Malfoy was…  _Malfoy_. Hermione couldn't get a good read on him, and he often kept to himself. In fact, the only time they interacted was when he helped her train. During those hours, both Theo and Malfoy bombarded her Occlumency shields, making her force them back until her temper was short and her brain felt like mush. It was necessary, she realised, but Draco had a proclivity for delving into her most painful memories and made her force them back again and again.

Behind her, a twig snapped, and she whirled, scattering the bed of tinder she'd spread evenly on the ground. Malfoy stood just at the edge of the clearing, watching her with drawn brows as if her errant thoughts had summoned him.

Silence stretched between them. Hermione could do nothing but stare at him, her heart pounding in her ears. He broke the stare, bending over to pick up the discarded sticks and crossing the clearing to arrange them beside her. With a hard swallow, she resumed building the fire, and they worked in tandem for a few minutes before he spoke. "I don't force you to remember them to hurt you."

Hermione started, her gaze snapping to his and she froze, a sharp lance of anger at his intrusion racing down her spine and grabbing a fistful of her stomach. She frantically scrambled to fortify her Occlumency shields, but they were still in tact. Brow furrowing as she found each brick in place as she'd practiced. "How did you — I have my walls."

Malfoy made a small noise of protest in his throat, and her hands stilled in the frenzied arranging. "It's like I can hear you… like this spell has amplified every thought you have and they echo down that connection, like any chink in your armor, any gap in the shields, catapult them right into my head."

"Oh." It was a short syllable, but it held a world of understanding in it. The Manor, all those nights in the cellar… he'd forged a connection between them through all of the nights he'd forced her to remember. "Right."

A low rumble of a sigh passed from Malfoy's lips, and she eyed him out of her peripherals as she built another layer of sticks. Her father's words returned to her from Girl Guides in her youth:  _first the tinder, which is all the little sticks. Kindling is what really gets you going. Then come your logs, to keep the fire burning bright._ In Malfoy's eyes, she could see the reflection of her hands steadily organizing the material. Just beneath his lower lashline, a flicker of magic wavered, and Hermione glimpsed deep, black circles etched into his skin. Her mind supplied the metaphor without forethought; he was, for lack of better terminology, running on fumes, and Hermione felt a wisp of sympathy for him before she quashed it.

Malfoy, though, must have felt the emotion flicker down their connection because his lip curled. "I'm fine, Granger. I just don't sleep." He stared resolutely at her hands, and she finally stacked the logs she'd gathered as an excuse to observe Hogwarts. A furtive glance around the camp prefaced his words. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Hermione drew back, hovering her hand over the arranged kindling, but his apology shocked her, and her magic flared out of her unexpectedly. Before them, a burst of heat flared, and the entire pit roared to life in a bright blue flame. Both of them reared backward, and Hermione collapsed backward.

"I didn't want to do it… but Mother—" Malfoy sighed and ran a hand through his hair, furtive eyes glancing around the camp before he continued in a low, cautious voice. "She said some things must be done in order to set the path straight." He stared at the flame, a pinched expression coming to his face. "And I hated every second of it."

Hermione was shocked into silence, and Malfoy continued. "But you've got to try—you have to make them believe it. Don't let them see any weakness; you've seen what they'll do." Malfoy nodded once, resolutely, resigned, and swept away and into the tent.

Several beats passed before Hermione could resume tending to the fire, and even then, her mind whirled. It wasn't like Malfoy to offer advice, to be kind, and she couldn't make heads nor tails of it. Unless…

Something big was coming.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. It wasn't their day to patrol, so Hermione and Theo spent several hours playing wizarding chess from the poorly hodge-podged set he had unearthed from the depths of one of the tent's trunks. He was good, and she lost again and again, magic beginning to spark on her skin from the anger that roiled under her skin.

"You've a quicker temper than before," Theo observed. His words were loaded, and Hermione peered up at him through her lashes as he stared down at the game board.

She hummed her agreement, watching as one of his knights shattered her remaining rook. With a grimace, she advanced a pawn. "I do."

"Queen to F7." His piece slid across the board before he looked at Hermione again. "Check-mate."

Hermione jolted upright, staring at the board before she slouched in her seat. "Bugger." WIth a flick of her wrist, the rest of the pieces swept into the box in shattered remains, and she watched them piece back together, keeping her face carefully blank.

Theo watched, too, chewing on his bottom lip. "It's good," he mused, "to keep them off the trail."

Her gaze slid to his, and she watched as he slowly turned to face her, keeping his fingertips steepled below his chin. His gaze rested on hers for a moment before it slid away, watching Malfoy across the tent, steam rising from a cauldron he was boiling. "I know something happened back there, after we saw Luna. Part of you is back, but it's… different. Colder."

Hermione inclined her head in agreement. The first few days after seeing Luna, vaguely learning part of her place in all this, she'd felt an onslaught of emotions, everything that had been hidden away behind that wall of magic. She'd spent night after night building that wall back up and allowing increments out. She wasn't numb anymore, but she wasn't the same Hermione she'd grown into.

Theo studied Malfoy, and Hermione followed his lead, gaze tracing the line of his back where he hunched and quietly counted each stir to himself. "Narcissa said to embrace the magic." Hermione glanced back at him, watching his lips thin. "So I am."

That wasn't the truth of it. At least not entirely. Deep down, Hermione knew that if she allowed herself to feel the extent of everything she'd buried over the last months, she'd drown in the emotions, the magic that felt foundational to her survival. She felt the wave of grief battering that wall each night, threatening to crash over the walls and sweep her away, drag her under so deep she'd never reach the surface again.

She couldn't tell if allowing those emotions to escape would be the end of her or everyone else, so she kept them at bay until she needed it, allowing only tendrils of it to escape to fuel her magic.

"Weasley is switching patrols." Draco's voice drifted to them through the tent, the low tone full of warning. He didn't turn to look at them, and Hermione could tell that the stiff set to his shoulders meant he'd known for some time.

Beside her, Theo bristled. "Where did you hear that?"

Finally, Malfoy looked over his shoulder at them, but his gaze seemed to skip between her and Theo without really seeing either of them. "Heard it from the thestral's mouth." He resumed stirring the potion, his tone muted when he spoke again. "Said he's tired of letting the love birds flaunt themselves all over the camp."

Hermione closed her eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "He's reassigned Granger to his watch, but Greyback has insisted that I join the patrol too, likely thanks to Granger's potion."

Theo swore to himself, his hands coiling into fists. Hermione knew that it wasn't due to any romantic inclinations, though he was good at putting on a display. When they sat around the campfire, he always lingered near her, an arm around her waist or leaning in to whisper incantations in her ear to mimic a lover's caress whilst whispering spells that she could remember. Spells for disemboweling or disfiguring or dismembering. Particularly when Ron was around, he'd press a kiss to her temple, and Hermione had to quell the magic that threatened to lash out and force him back. Instead, she recited the spells in her mind as Theo drew back, focusing on the satisfaction she'd feel when she finally got to use them on Ron.

Theo was keeping them both alive, and she was grateful for it, but his proximity made her magic roil all the same.

But now, she'd be forced to be near Ron, to listen to him boast of everything he'd done, all the witches and wizards he'd hurt in his tenure of the Vehme, and Hermione's stomach roiled in protest.

At least she'd have Malfoy, she thought bitterly.

That he was the better alternative… Hermione shook off the thought.

Beside her, Theo glanced from her to Malfoy, holding the latter's intense gaze. "For Luna and for your Mother… keep her safe." Theo's voice held the edge of a threat, the closest to violence she'd ever heard from him, and she watched an unnameable emotion rise in Malfoy's eyes before he nodded sharply once and returned to the cauldron.

"Malfoy will keep an eye on you, but remember the code: red sparks for an emergency." Theo was solemn, a promise in his gaze. "I know you might not trust me, Granger, but you're family now. I told Luna I'd protect you, and I don't break promises."

 _Family_.

Her mind had ground to a halt at the word, and memories flashed through her mind.

Her mother, broken and bleeding on the ground. Her father's sightless eyes, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Harry's outstretched hands, his blood staining her hand.

Theo, an anguished cry etched into a silenced mouth. And finally, and most chillingly, Malfoy's blond hair caked with rusty flakes.

A strong surge of magic slammed the visions out of her mind, and her eyes shot frantically to Malfoy, who had whirled around to stare at her, all colour draining from his face as he stared at her with his jaw slack.

_Why the hell had a vision of a dead Malfoy made her heart feel as though it had snapped in two?_

With a sharp nod to Theo, she retreated to her cot, panic racing through her that Malfoy had been privy to the thoughts that had raced through her head moments before. To calm her thoughts, she reached into her beaded bag, pulled out a book and paged through it absently, barely registering the photos on the pages before she felt calm enough to retire for the evening.

Two days passed before Ron found Hermione gathering firewood at the edge of their camp. She'd paused to bind the sticks together, watching the way ice seemed to wrap around the wood despite her attempt to quell the magic she'd been wrestling with.

She was on edge, had been for days, so when a hand wrapped around her elbow as she bent to scoop up the bundle, Hermione spun around and pointed her wand in the intruder's face.

Ron stared down the point of it, her breath gusting out in a cloud between them.

Inexplicably, his smile curled at the tip of it, and Hermione forced herself to breath through the thoughts roaring within her. "Hermione, so good to see you." His words dripped with false saccharine. "I have some news that I expect you'll be quite pleased to hear."

With a deep breath, she forced her wand down, remembering Theo's warning that they would take any excuse to maim or kill; a wand in the face would likely warrant such, especially given she knew and had been the target of Ron's quick temper many times before. "Voldemort has given us a special mission."

Though her stomach dropped out from beneath her, Hermione forced herself to continue gathering kindling as he followed in her wake. With an unaffected air, she hummed a poor excuse for intrigue, but Ron's ego apparently hadn't been dampened by double-crossing the Order, so he continued. "We'll be returning to Hogwarts."

Time stopped, and Hermione dropped the bundle of sticks she held as she slowly turned to face him. But he wasn't where he'd been moments before, and suddenly his hand wrapped around her wrist in a vice and she was whirling through the air in a riot of colours and sounds.

When they landed, Hermione's knees buckled, but Ron's grip on her wrist held her upright as she stared around her new surroundings. They'd reappeared on the Hogwarts grounds, just steps away from the Black Lake, and the castle loomed before them. She opened her mouth to question how they'd made it there, but Ron drug her along behind him. "Being a leader of the Vehme allows special privileges." His self-satisfied tone made Hermione grimace. What else had changed at Hogwarts since she'd been gone?

As he dragged her along the lake, Hermione studied her surroundings, trying to formulate a way out. Hagrid's cabin stood desolate and dilapidated near the Forbidden Forest, and the usual menagerie of fantastic beasts he'd kept there were gone. His pumpkin garden had spoiled, and crows hopped among them, pecking at the festering rot. Beyond that, she could see the Quidditch pitch and the hut that Madam Hooch had kept the school brooms in. If she needed, she could make it there, but her gaze continued to sweep over the grounds until they crested a hill that led them to the greenhouses and—

Hermione stumbled to a stop for a brief moment before Ron wrenched her onward, her mouth agape at the sight before her. Between the lake and the greenhouses, a marble slab stood, figures carved into it. The effigy would have been beautiful if not for the scene it depicted, and Hermione forced her face into stoicism even as tears pricked her eyes.

Carved into the marble was a scene Hermione had relived many nights on the run, but she'd never seen the truth of it. The likeness of the astronomy tower was rendered in beautifully cut lines, the skill of the carver having fashioned it to look as though the entire monument had been cut from one swath of fabric instead of a large chunk of rock.

At the bottom, a crumpled figure lay, and even from here Hermione could tell it was meant to be Dumbledore. In death.

A sob lodged in her throat as they neared. The carving was magically enhanced, and as they approached, the astronomy tower shrunk in size. What remained, however, was the carving of Dumbledore, sprawled in death and staring upward with unseeing eyes.

And then the horrible truth hit her.

It  _was_  Dumbledore, his body magically encased in marble and forever frozen in testament to his final moments. His glasses hung broken on the end of his nose, and his wand was discarded beneath his body, the tip just visible beneath his figure.

Beside her, Ron stared down at the scene with sick glee lighting his face. When he turned his face toward her, she forced herself to stare at him resolutely, allowing no shred of emotion to flicker on her face no matter how desperately she wanted to beat him down. With a cock of his head, he approached her, cradling her face in his hand. "You're so strong now, 'Mione," he breathed, his fingers tilting her chin upward. "Think about what we could do together." His grip tightened, nails digging into her skin.

She stared into his face, the familiar features twisted into a foreign expression, and she reminded herself again that he was not Ron anymore. Not the dirty-nosed little boy she'd grown up with. "I am."

He chuckled into her face, releasing her from his grip as he crouched beside Dumbledore's head, instead caressing the deceased man's face through the marble encasing him. "I did this," he breathed, staring at her over his shoulder with maniacal delight. "They all ridiculed me, told me I was nothing compared to you and Harry, but  _I_ did this.  _I_ killed the strongest wizard alive." A deep laugh rumbled through him as he stood, approaching her again and pulling her flush against him. "Imagine what we could do together, Hermione."

And for a moment, Hermione allowed herself to think about what it would be like. To give in to the darkness that threatened, the angry depths of the magic that she knew she could fall into if she allowed herself to. If she allowed herself to forget all the pain, all the emotions that she forced back minute after minute, day after day.

It would be so easy to lean into Ron, to forget it all, and just embrace this power she'd been given. She wondered idly if Narcissa had seen a third vision, if she'd just written it off as impossible, that Hermione Granger would never join the Dark Lord permanently.

And then faces flashed before her. Harry, her mom, her dad, and then Narcissa's keen gaze, Theo's boyish laughter when she caught him by surprise. And finally, most unsettlingly, Malfoy's inscrutable grey gaze.

And though her mind screamed at her to stop, not to give him any semblance of acquiescence, another part of her, the ruthless, unforgivably logical part of her that had woken up with this curse, told her to give him everything he wanted, to play the part to get what she wanted. And she forced the thoughts back even as she nodded and leaned into Ron, the cold metal of a chain he wore around his neck pressing into her temple.

"Show me," she breathed.

With a wave of his hand, the marble around Dumbledore dissolved, and Ron vibrated with excitement as he toed the old man's body up even as Hermione stood stock still, horror rooting her to the spot as she watched the man's limp form flop back into place as his wand rolled loose.

Everything seemed to fast-forward as the wand rolled to a stop at her feet, and suddenly Hermione couldn't breathe, knowledge slamming into her as she stared at the wand. The knobbed edges, the subtle cracking in the handle…

And then her mind was racing through pages of the book she'd read the night before, pictures flying through her mind so fast she couldn't keep up, and then it slammed to a halt on the last page she'd looked at absently before slamming the book shut and falling into sleep.

_The Peverell brothers were known to have escaped death using the Deathly Hallows, gifted to them from death himself. The first brother asked for—_

"The Elder Wand," she breathed, awe and trepidation filling her voice as she stooped to pick it up. But before her fingers could wrap around it, the wand flew through the air, landing in Ron's outstretched hand.

If Voldemort got that wand…

"Beautiful, isn't it?" His voice held quiet reverence as he twirled the wand between his thumb and forefinger. He looked up at her, his grin so reminiscent of her childhood friend that she almost felt badly for the thoughts that shot through her mind. "Rightfully mine, too, since I killed its previous owner." Satisfaction rang in his tone as he wrapped a hand around the wood and stared down at it in awe.

As he stared at the wand, Hermione slid her own loose from its holster on her hip, her movement slow and deliberate as she delved into the magic that had begun to sustain her, and she shifted as though she was admiring it alongside him. And then she wrapped her arm around his back to distract him from the point of her wand in his side.

With a furtive glance around the grounds, she muttered a silent thanks to Merlin as she closed her eyes and forced all of her magic into the borrowed wand and the spell she hoped would be her saving grace. " _Petrificus Totalus."_

Ron sagged into her, his eyes wide with surprise and then narrowing into rage as she lowered him to the ground at her feet, Elder Wand still clasped in his hand. And then, as she bent to retrieve the wand from his clasped grip, she remembered another note from the book. Her eyes had skimmed over the whole of the page restlessly, but she'd lingered on the line, the significance of it lost on her until now:  _The wand's allegiance must be won, not simply stolen._

And with a quiet sob, she whispered, " _Accio_ Elder Wand."

The wand shook, wriggling itself loose, and finally flew through the air, settling in her hand, and Hermione felt in. The magic in her core flared red hot, slithering into her veins and bones and the very marrow of her being, weaving itself down her limbs in an inextricable ivy and wending its way possessively into the Elder Wand, and she felt a power she hadn't known. Not before the curse, not after, and she was certain she'd never feel it again.

As she stared down at her former friend, Hermione almost felt drunk on the magic, her head spinning at the sheer amount of it that coursed through her veins and tunneled into the wand, and she exhaled harshly as she fought to contain the overwhelmed tears from leaking down her cheeks.

On another exhale, Hermione leveled the wand at him with a shaking hand, Ron's eyes growing wide at their tip, and she stared at him.

She could do it. She could end it all now, with just a flash of emerald light, and it would be painless. Her friend would be released from whatever he'd allowed to befall him, and she'd be free to escape. Vengeance seemed so simple… and yet.

The moment passed, the desire fleeing the longer she stared into his wide, pleading eyes, and the shaking of her hand belied the desire. Another harsh inhale bolstered her, and she pushed as much will as she could into making him forget as much of the last twenty-four hours as possible. " _Obliviate_."

To buy her time. To buy  _them_  time.

Finally, she thrust the wand into the air, sending a shower of red sparks as high as she could. Praying to whatever gods were listening that it would be enough for Malfoy and Theo to see and prepare to get out, she ran.

**End of Part Two**


	26. Six of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but here nonetheless! Thanks for reading along - have a great week!

**Part 3: The Awakening**

**Chapter 26 -** _**Six of Swords** _

Hermione darted into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, running as fast as her legs would carry her. She knew that the strength of the spells she had cast on Ron, but she couldn't shake the niggling fear that someone had seen, that they'd sounded the alarm and would catch her and that would be the end of it all.

She faltered only once in her escape, detouring to the shed near the Quidditch pitch and hastily grabbed three of the least-flimsy looking brooms even as her heart flip flopped in her chest. With a hastily cast  _Reducio_ , she slipped two of them carefully alongside her wand, keeping the third in her hand as she resumed her mad dash toward freedom.

Memories of her time at Hogwarts assaulted her as she ran. Past the tree where Viktor had kissed her for the very first time. Past Hagrid's hut again, its darkened shutters hanging sadly in the evening light. Past the boats rocking forlornly alongside the Black Lake's bank. She left behind all the things she loved without a backward glance.

Tree limbs whipped at her face, opening miniscule cuts along her cheekbones, her arms, anywhere they touched, and her breath puffed out of her in clouds of vapour. Still she ran, ignoring the stitch in her side. As she crashed through the south line of the trees and saw the gate of the Hogwarts grounds looming before her, Hermione recognized the feeling that bloomed in her chest, in her throat, that screamed in her head to just  _run._

It was hope.

And even though instincts screamed at her to look back, to pause and take in the castle, Hermione had reached the gate. On a ragged inhale, she cancelled the spell on the broom, the length of it expanding in her palms. She threw her leg over the worn handle, and kicked off the ground in blind faith that desperation would propel the broom forward and over the iron that trapped her within the grounds.

The broom lifted into the air, stuttering and bobbing as she held her breath. But finally,  _finally_ , it steadied out, rising swiftly above the ground, and she leaned low over the handle, eyes set on the small curl of smoke she could see rising in the air in the distance. Nearly horizontal on the broomstick, she prayed to any gods that were listening to just get her there, racing over treetops like a Snitch.

Though the trip felt like an eternity, Hermione knew it was mere minutes, and when she landed at the edge of the camp, she shrank the broom, rearranging it beside the others. As her hand brushed the Elder Wand, her breath stuttered, reveling in the power for a single minute before she squared her shoulders, affixed the mask that Malfoy had been training her to wear, and strode into the camp.

Few of the Death Eaters still lingered in the camp, and none of them gave her a second glance as she strode through their ranks. She sent another silent thanks to the gods that Ron had grabbed her outside the camp, though she still was cautious in her approach, taking measured steps and avoiding the urge to scan every face she passed for the slightest indication of suspicion.

Finally, their tent loomed before her, and Hermione allowed her gaze to sweep over the clearing before entering. Embers smouldered in the firepit, though Hermione could tell that they'd been doused quickly. The few implements they'd gathered to cook with along the way were no longer resting on the edge of the pit, and Hermione hoped it was a sign that the boys had seen the sparks.

As she ducked inside, she held her breath, uncertainty racing through her at what she would find.

Inside, Theo and Malfoy were huddled together over the table, looking over a piece of parchment. As the tent flap fluttered closed behind her, both of them spun around, wands raised and sinking into battle stances.

Theo was the first to lower his wand, crossing the space between them in two quick strides. "What happened?"

Malfoy swept his hand over the parchment, shrinking it down into a small square, and stuffed it in a mokeskin pouch that hung from the loop of his trousers; with a start, she realised it was the most disheveled she'd seen him, but she quickly shook it off when Theo offered her the beaded bag that was her lifeline.

Hermione shook her head, accepting the pouch, and slipped it into her pocket. In return, she dug the shrunk brooms out of her pocket. "No time to explain; the short of it is that I attacked Ron and left him petrified and obliviated on Hogwarts' grounds. It's only a matter of time before someone finds him and sends up a signal."

"Shite." Colour drained from Malfoy's face as she passed out the broom. "How much time do we have?"

"I don't know—I got back as quickly as I could. But we need to go." The authority in her tone was amplified by the jittery magic coursing through her and she swept her gaze over the tent one last time. She turned to exit the tent and suddenly Theo was striding past her, determination in his features.

He swept to the cauldron in the corner, watching the contents bubble slightly darker than they had the last time she'd made the Wolfsbane—the extra aconite having sullied it just enough to make it poisonous—and he muttered a spell that vanished the cauldron. In its place, seven vials rested neatly on the ground and he bent to sweep them up.

When he turned, his face was waxen, but he still managed to smile at Hermione. A dull pounding started in her head, the familiar white noise of debilitating fear roaring to the surface, but she pushed it back, boarded it up, and steeled her nerves against it as she stepped in his path.

"Nott, what are you doing?" His surname felt clunky on her lips, but she refused to address him as Theo, couldn't bear to think about what his determination might mean long enough to allow emotions to rule the situation.

With a shrug, he smiled widely at her and Malfoy, a display worthy of a Gryffindor. "What needs to be done."

Malfoy swore behind him, and he suddenly stepped up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers as he tried to reason with the wizard. "Theo, you heard Granger. She's attacked Weasley, left him stunned at Hogwarts. They could very well be on their way here—you know what the Carrows will do if they catch us. Merlin, you know what  _Greyback_ will do if he's suspicious at all."

Theo shouldered past them, making his way to the flap, and Hermione's heart cracked as he shared a small, sad smile with them. "I've got to do this; I think, in a way, I've always known that it would come down to me to make sure that old bastard died." He sighed, eyeing the vials in his hand. "If he asks after you, Granger, I'll tell him that you retired after brewing the potion; that you didn't want to deal with another night of him blowing smoke in your eyes in exchange from your hard work." He offered them a shrug. "It wouldn't be too unbelievable to ask your boyfriend to deliver them."

And she knew it would work—or maybe it was hope again that allowed her to nod, even as she forced fear behind that brick wall that she'd started to build again the moment Ron had embraced her at the foot of the monument.

"Draco, keep your parchment close; write me where you go if the plans change, and I'll meet you there." And with that, he was gone.

Before Hermione could protest, could even process that another of her friends was walking into what could very well be their death, sacrificing themselves for her, Malfoy dragged her to the rear of the tent, slashing a wide hole in the canvas with a low ripping noise, and dragged her into the darkness beyond the edge of the camp, shrouded in shadows where the campfire glow didn't reach.

His hand clamped over her mouth even as she opened it to speak. "Granger, I'm going to say this once, so listen closely." At her narrowed gaze, he uncovered her mouth. "You will cast a disillusionment spell and follow me. Do not say anything; do not try to run." The direct command awoke the forced obedience she'd forgotten was characteristic of the curse, and her wand raised, following his orders even as he began a quick-paced trek through the night and finally, over the crest just beyond the camp. They mounted the brooms and raced away, Hermione glancing over her shoulder periodically until the camp narrowed to a speck and then disappeared completely.

She didn't know how long they flew, but her body began to grow stiff with the cold of the air rushing past her on the broomstick. Soon, her fingers felt like blocks of ice wrapped around the handle, and her teeth clacked together in an endless chatter. Tears stung her eyes, and she couldn't for the life of her tell if they were from the cold or the preemptive grief she struggled with for her friend.

When Draco finally dipped below the clouds, the sun had set and the unforgiving cold night had settled thickly around them. Her stiff joints protested painfully as they touched down at the edge of a copse of trees, and Malfoy motioned her into the depths of the shadows that seemed to wrap around themselves.

It was the only foliage visible beneath the blanket of snow that shrouded everything around them. Moonlight seemed to dance off its surface, creating tricks of light wherever she looked, but Malfoy didn't pause as dipped beneath a large, warped trunk, making his way deeper into the coverage.

He didn't indicate that they need be quiet, but his careful footfalls and constant flickering glances over his shoulder indicated the peril of the situation.

Though she focused on placing her feet in the hollows his own footfalls had created, Hermione couldn't help the deep-seated instinct to mark their path, to mark a way out should they need to. But the trees all looked the same in here, old and gnarled and falling into one another, and she struggled to differentiate one from the next. Even glancing backward proved disorienting, as the path seemed to have closed in on itself, shrouding their path from overhead.

Before her, Malfoy paused, studying the expanse of foliage before him with a critical eye. Even from behind, Hermione could tell that he was intent in his examination, looking for a clue that only he knew.

After a few silent moments, he turned at a slight angle, the moonlight glinting off his cheekbone, and strode forward, over a fallen tree, and stopped before the remains of a mulberry bush. And then she saw it.

Before him, the trees he stared into were a duplicate of the ones directly to their left. If she stared just  _so_ , she could see the glimmer of the disillusionment spell where the image overlapped with the original. A wave of his wand cleared the spell, and Hermione felt disappointment settle low in her stomach.

A small cottage stood before them, no larger than the girls' dormitory had been at Hogwarts. The front appeared to be crumbling, shutters falling at an odd angle or missing altogether. The chimney seemed to have fallen in on itself, and gaping holes had opened in the miniscule porch that buckled against the front.

With cautious steps, Malfoy approached the cabin, waving his wand in careful arcs that sent waves of white magic over the front. Hermione joined him reluctantly, following his lead by casting spell after spell to uncover any malicious magic. When several sweeps revealed nothing more than what met the eye, Draco nodded and carefully climbed the steps.

The door creaked inward with his slight push. Inside, cracks in the ceiling revealed drifts of snow that had slipped in through the broken windows, the sagging roof. The cottage itself was bare. No furniture decorated the floor, and dark spots on the walls indicated where photos had once been hung. Now, Hermione felt as though she'd walked into a memory that had been poorly preserved.

Behind her, Malfoy slipped the door shut, and finally, he spoke. "We're in Rothiemurchus forest. This used to be a Nott cabin, inherited through their bloodline. We'll be safe here so long as Theo maintains our welcome." He shook the snow from his boots, his blood red cloak bright against the snow and wood floors.

Hermione eyed the lodgings again, her lip curling against her volition. "Cozy."

Shocking her, Malfoy laughed, a sharp, almost unpleasant sound in the empty room. "Beggars can't be choosers, Granger. And besides, it's temporary. Once Theo arrives and we figure out a plan…"

"We can get out of here," she finished for him. With methodical precision, she knelt and began to unpack her beaded bag to take stock of their supplies. "And Theo knows—"

Malfoy nodded the affirmative. "It was his idea; he knows how to get here. And if he doesn't, he'll send a Patronus."

She froze, staring up at him as confusion ground her brain to a halt, her hands hanging uselessly before her.

Malfoy snorted, rolling his eyes at her expression. "Yes, Granger, Death Eaters can cast a Patronus." He sniffed, following suit in her unpacking as he knelt across from her and upended his leather pouch. "If we practice enough."

With forced determination, Hermione resumed picking through her supplies. "It's not that I don't believe you, but everything I've read says—"

Beside her, Malfoy hefted a gusty sigh. "You should know by now, Granger, that not everything you read is the truth. History is written by the victors and whatnot."

She hummed her agreement. In her wand holster, the Elder Wand burned against her. After a careful examination to ensure all of her Occlumency shields were in tact and reinforced, she contemplated telling Malfoy. It was a powerful weapon; they could use it to take down Voldemort in theory, but…

Part of her questioned if the wand wasn't merely a legend, one thought up by powerful wizards who welcomed the challenge and whose talent overcame their opponents. It represented a hope she wasn't prepared to accept, and so she left it tucked away, refusing to acknowledge it until Theo arrived.

As silence settled around them again, Hermione observed her supplies. She'd exhausted most of her potions ingredients over the last few weeks in the camp, brewing pain potions and dreamless sleep droughts to ease the nights. So, too, had she used a lot when brewing the Wolfsbane for Greyback.

The reality of the situation was that she had little to work with. She had enough for a small batch of pain potions, some Dittany left in a stoppered vial, and a couple spare ingredients that wouldn't be of much use on their own. Her books were piled next to it, many of their covers worn and well-loved. She glanced through the titles of them, humming in disappointment when none immediately jumped out as useful. Though her gaze lingered on the book that had started this mad escape, she didn't pull it from the bottom of the stack for fear that Malfoy would notice and find the choice suspicious.

She sat back on her haunches, trying to quell the anxiety that rose up within her.

"He'll be alright, Granger." Malfoy's words were quiet, but they were laced with concern, too. "I've known Theo for years, grew up with him, actually." Malfoy picked up a piece of parchment and passed it from hand to hand before he held it up at her. "If something happens, he'll do his best to get us word. But Theo is smart, sharper than anyone gives him credit for, and he's brave." Draco chortled quietly to himself, staring down at the parchment in his hands. "He had to ask the hat to put him in Slytherin; it wanted to put him in Gryffindor."

She smiled, remembering the way he seemed to throw self-preservation to the wind and put her in her place several times in the manor. "He'd have done well."

Malfoy nodded, and silence fell between them again.

If you'd have told Hermione months ago that she would be on the run with Draco Malfoy, awaiting Theodore Nott, in a cabin in the middle of a forest, she'd have laughed. She could hardly believe that she was sitting with the person who had stood by all those times she was tortured, who delved into her memories ruthlessly while she writhed beneath him.

But watching the way Malfoy stared out the window, she wondered just how little of the boy she knew.

He'd become so skilled at hiding his every thought from those around him, and she wondered just how much he even knew about himself.

She'd be hypocritical, though, to judge him for what he'd done to survive. Not when the faces of those she'd killed flashed before her eyes every night when she laid down to sleep.

But instead of dwelling, instead of allowing herself to spiral into that dark place that beckoned her again, she stood, rubbing her numb hands on her training pants to try to stimulate feeling back into them. When Malfoy looked at her with a raised brow, she simply said, "If we're going to be here for a while, might as well make it liveable—or as liveable as it'll get."

One sweep of her arm dissolved the mounds of snow in the corners of the room, the water dissolving in a hiss of steam. Another wave of her arm gathered the broken bits of wood that had fallen in the roof and stacked them in the grate, a small flame erupting in them. A final sweep of her arm sent the remaining broken bits of board over the broken windows and sealed the ceiling.

Malfoy watched on in silence, and when she settled before the fire and stuck her hands out to warm them, he joined her.

Staring into the flames, she worked up the courage to ask him the question she'd been unable to so far. There was so much she needed to know, so many questions she had that she didn't know where to start. Graceless words tumbled from her lips. "What is this curse?"

He stiffened beside her, staring into the flames. After a gust sigh, he spoke, low and even. "Some time ago, the wizarding world was in danger of dying out. Pure-bloods had intermarried too much, and more Squibs than ever recorded were being born to witches and wizards who were as good as cousins." He turned to gaze at her out of the corner of his eye, and she nodded for him to continue even as her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. "So, many of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families began to dabble in blood curses to maintain wizardkind."

Hermione hummed, watching the way blue flames danced over the logs before them and savoring the returning feeling in her toes even as it burned. "Your mother said…"

Draco harrumphed at her interruption. "The Black witches tended to be quite secretive; the family itself had dabbled in blood magic for years, and by the time it came en vogue, they'd perfected an entire grimoire of the magic."

"And the one that was used on me?"

Malfoy inclined his head, continuing. "As far as my mother told me, it's a variation of a binding curse. It uses blood of the covenant to bind the target to the caster; only the same blood can be used to break the spell."

Horror sunk its claws deep in Hermione's gut at his words, and she swallowed thickly as she turned to look at him. "But that means…"

Low and serious, Malfoy confirmed her fears. "That means that Potter's death bound the curse. And I was the one to cast it."

Everything ground to a halt as Hermione's breath wheezed in and out of her. Narcissa had known… she'd known that Harry would die, that Hermione would do it. She'd known that Malfoy would bind her to him and turn her into this sliver of who she had once been.

Beside her, Malfoy turned fractionally, his gaze open in a rare display of emotion. "Granger, I didn't know; not until after the fact. My mother never told me what the spell did, or what would happen, only that I needed to cast it given the opportunity. She told me after the fact. And I was furious."

She laughed hollowly, tired anger welling up in her. "Why, Malfoy? Furious you'd have a Mudblood tethered to you?"

Beside her, he scoffed vehemently. "Whether you believe it or not, I abandoned the prejudices I held against you and other Muggle-borns years ago. But Voldemort lived in my house, held my mother captive— _still_  holds her over my head—and I had to do what he wanted." He took a deep breath, turning back to the fire. "I'm not excusing my actions. I'm not asking for forgiveness. But I  _am_ asking you to offer me a modicum of understanding."

And damn her if she didn't understand. She'd give anything to go back and save Harry. She'd trade places with him in a heartbeat. But she couldn't, and she couldn't fault Malfoy for doing whatever he needed to keep his family alive. It didn't make it okay, and she didn't know how this uneasy companionship would work between them, but she stared into the campfire all the same, feeling a little less alone.

After a beat, she spoke, steeling herself for what she was about to ask. "So this curse… how much of a hold does it have?"

Malfoy considered for a moment. "It's a blood curse, inherently dark according to most wizards, and it taps into the familial magic that the Sacred Twenty-Eight have. There are hundreds of years of history about the magic, Granger, some of it so old that we don't have the written language for it anymore, but I do know that it transfers some of that power to you. Essentially, though you're given the magic, you're also beheld to the caster's will."

That much she already knew, so she waited for him to continue. "These curses…" he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "They were designed to make you both submissive and powerful—in essence, they're supposed to make the perfect Pure-blood wife."

Though she wilted at the words, something deep within her had suspected that might be the case. It didn't make sense to curse someone with power; not when they were meant to be an enemy. And Narcissa's words came back to her.  _You are that witch_. The one that would take them all down, would destroy Voldemort and usher in a new wizarding world.

Part of her didn't want to believe it. Part of her couldn't. And then she would pick up her wand and cast a spell or remember the way it had felt to break Zabini, and the possibility loomed before her as a reality. But…

Another part of her couldn't let go of the past and the grief she felt once she allowed that wall within her to collapse. She still had power, she still could use it at will. But hesitation would not win this war. And so she took a deep breath, gathering the courage to ask her next question.

When she turned to face Malfoy, her knees jostled his and she stared at him. "You broke me. Ruined me. And maybe it wasn't by your hand, but it was under your watch, and I don't know how to trust someone who could stand by while that happened." She paused, her gaze drifting back towards the fire as she watched the flames lick towards the ceiling. "But that breaking… it woke something in me, something I didn't know I needed, something I'm still not even sure I want. So I don't trust you, Malfoy. But if we're going to make it out of this alive, then we need to come to an understanding."

Across from her, his eyes rose from the spot their knees connected, and he held her gaze. "What do you propose?"

"I've been trying to block it out, to work through the memories of Harry's death and file it away like you said; it works, but not for long enough. I can't pause every time I see blood and gore; I can't shy away from it." She picked at the frayed edge of her sock peeking out beneath her pants. "When Theo is back, when we have a plan and are going to go forward with this, I want you to use the curse. Make me compartmentalise it; force it back."

His eyes grew round. "Granger, I—"

"No, Malfoy. It's the only way this'll work; with that magic, and—" Indecision warred within her for only a second, and she reached in her wand holster and withdrew the Elder Wand. "—and with this, we might be able to make it out of this alive."

"The Elder Wand." Malfoy's quiet exaltation hung between them, and Hermione almost drew back, but he saw her hesitation and snapped his gaze to hers. "A vow. We'll cast an Unbreakable Vow; to fight together, against the Dark Lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alpha loves: msmerlin13  
> Beta babe: tofadeawayagain


	27. Temperance in Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I apologize for the missing chapter last week; seasonal depression is no joke and I just needed some time away. I'm sorry for leaving it on a cliffhanger; I had to put my mental health first. But I'm excited to give you this chapter and I'm looking forward to your thoughts on the next few. To end, Some of the text in this chapter comes from the movie transcript of the Three Brothers story from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1. Anything recognizable belongs to Warner Bros. and J.K. Rowling; I am not profiting off this in any way.

**Chapter 27 -** _**Temperance in Reverse** _

_We'll make an Unbreakable Vow._

Hermione froze, unsure that she'd heard him correctly. An Unbreakable Vow was… well, it was  _unbreakable_ , and she couldn't tell if he understood the gravity of that. When he leaned forward, staring at her intently, she turned away.

This was  _Malfoy._ Her indecision must have been obvious by the way she held her chin away from him, eyeing the growing snowfall outside the window. When a few moments passed without answer, he sighed.

"I know you don't trust me, Granger. But I'll wait." His next words were quiet, and they held more meaning than she cared to examine. "I'll wait for as long as you need me to. But I'm not going to force you to use a magic I know you're more than capable of wielding."

Silence descended on them, and Hermione couldn't help but stand, crossing to the window to gaze out at the barren landscape. "We've been here for nearly an hour." She chewed her lip nervously, watching snow swirl down in an endless white sheet to fall gracefully on the ground. "Can't he-"

"Theo's smart." His voice rumbled through her, and she gazed over her shoulder to look at him. He'd crossed the room on silent feet, and he stood just behind her, following her gaze over the trees. "He knows where to find us."

She acquiesced with a quiet "hmm" and resumed her crouch on the floor near her beaded bag. With nothing else to hide and time to pass, she pulled out the book she'd been flipping through, the one that led to having this blasted wand at her side.

_There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time the brothers reached a river too treacherous to pass, but being learned in the magical arts, the three brothers simply waved their wands and made a bridge._

Hermione settled deeper into the corner, trying to contain her warmth to her person instead of casting a warming spell should she need the magic.

_The oldest brother asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence, so Death fashioned him one from an elder tree that stood nearby._

_The first brother travelled to a distant village, where with the Elder Wand in hand, he killed a wizard with whom he had once quarreled. Drunk with the power that the Elder Wand had given him, he bragged over his invincibility. But that night, another wizard stole the wand and slit the brother's throat for good measure, and so Death took the first brother for his own._

A shiver worked down her spine as she read the passage again and again.  _Drunk with the power_. It was oddly reminiscent of the way she felt when she wielded the magic that the Malfoy's spell had given her, and Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about that.

With a bolstering breath, she picked up the Elder Wand, spinning the length of it between her fingers. How much bloodshed had this wand seen? How much had it caused?

As she allowed the warmth of her magic to flow through it, she finally allowed herself to think the question she'd been avoiding.

How much of it would  _she_  cause?

A dull thud outside the cabin sent her jolting upright, and she watched Malfoy immediately shift into defensive mode. She followed suit, slipping the Elder Wand into the holster at her hip even as she slid the other loose. The ashwood wand felt resistant in her hand, and she fought the rising swell of disappointment and panic that the wand she'd grown familiar with had abandoned loyalty to her so quickly.

In the same breath, she refused to acknowledge the anticipation that rose in her at using the Elder Wand.

On weary feet, she approached the doorway at Malfoy's back, both of them raising their wands to point at the slim opening where the door had fallen off its hinges. A shadow passed over the doorway, and a grunt preceded it falling inward, a figure slumped against it.

"You know, you could help a bloke out when he's clearly injured." Theo's voice aimed for jovial, but the pain evident in the tone fell flat in the air around them.

Before her, Malfoy's shoulders visibly slumped even as he surged forward, slipping an arm beneath Theo's. With a groan, he pulled Theo upright and into the cabin.

Hermione stepped forward, intent on pushing the door shut, but she stopped short. The woods around them were quiet, the moonlight barely filtering through the trees and leaving dappled shadows over the snow-covered ground. Trees creaked with the weight of the snow on the branches, but she couldn't help the feeling that someone was watching her, watching  _them._

Behind her, Hermione heard Draco cast a terse transfiguration spell. "Come on, Granger. He needs your help."

A glance over her shoulder sent her heart lurching. A sharp gash had been torn in Theo's side, visible through the dark fabric of his robes. His crimson Vehme cloak had been torn beyond recognition, and her stomach turned when she saw the deep stain in it.

When Theo laughed in the firelight of the cabin, blood glinted on his teeth. "The cabin's under a Fidelius charm; even if they followed me to the forest, they wouldn't be able to get in."

A hesitant glance back into the dark of the trees did nothing to reassure Hermione; each sway of a branch and creaking in the night sent a shiver up her spine. She didn't know who or what it was, but something was waiting for them out there.

A wracking cough drew her back to Theo's splayed form on the tiny cot Malfoy had managed to transfigure out of the remaining broken boards. In two large strides, she was looming over him, gauging the extent of the wound.

Three parallel gashes ran in lines down his side, the white glint of bone shining through, and her stomach turned violently, the sharp tang of bile rising in her throat at the sight. Fear plagued her, memories of sightless eyes and wounds much larger than this staring back at her. Another cough sent the cuts weeping blood again, and she sprang into action.

"Malfoy, I'm going to need your help. How much experience do you have with healing magic?" She waved her wand, summoning the beaded bag from beside the hearth. She dipped her hand inside, pulling out the stoppered vial of Dittany.

Across from her, Malfoy's breathing had turned uneven, and his skin held an ashy hue to it that bordered on green. His eyes were glued to Theo's wound. "Not much. I – my mother tended to all the wounds in the manor, and I–"

"What Malfoy is trying to say is that he's a duffer. He's never actually seen battle," Theo wheezed. His next breath came out on a drawn-out hiss, and Hermione quickly assessed the situation.

With as much authority as she could muster, she directed him even as she used her wand to tear away the cloth that surrounded Theo's wound. "Malfoy, I need you to transfigure something into a bowl; I don't care what it is, but it needs to be clean. Then go outside and gather snow. Melt it down and sterilize it as best you can."

Malfoy didn't respond, his lips trembling as he watched her set ingredients alongside Theo. A quick glance at Theo's shaking limbs and goose-pebbled flesh displayed the severity of the situation, and she put the bottles down, reaching over her friend's body and grasping Malfoy's arm. "Malfoy.  _Malfoy_ , look at me." His gaze was clouded and unseeing, and she fought the urge to slap him. " _Draco Malfoy_ , get your shite together and help me."

The use of his given name snapped his eyes to hers, his lips parting just slightly, and she kept her voice low and firm. "Transfigure something into a bowl. Gather snow in it, melt it, and bring it here. Make sure to sterilise it."

He nodded robotically, allowing Theo's arm to slip out of his grasp and fall back to the bedding. As he retreated, Hermione reached into her bag, pulling out the crimson cloak she'd discarded within and used her wand to sever it into strips. A quick survey of her inventory made her grimace, and Hermione looked up when Malfoy set a bowl of water next to her.

She prefaced her next words with a short nod. "I'm going to clean up the wound to determine the extent of the damage. Hand me whatever I ask for." He nodded wordlessly, his mouth pressed into a thin, white line as he watched her dip the crimson cloak into the water. "Theo, are you still doing okay?"

Above her, Theo nodded, though his breath stuttered out on a groan. "I'm here. I'm starting to get dizzy."

Grim insistence settled in her stomach, a pushing force that told her to go  _faster_ , but her hands held steady as she hovered a rag over his skin. With a firm wipe, she cleared a small patch of skin around the uppermost tear as his breath whistled out in a gasp. "I've got to clean these and stop the bleeding; when I'm done, I'll stitch you up." She bit her lip, weighing her next words. "We don't have any pain potions, so it will hurt."

She talked as she dabbed at the area, resolutely ignoring the red that began to stain her own fingers. Beside her, Malfoy handed her rag after rag, disappearing for a few moments to replenish the water when it became so muddied with blood that she couldn't tell if Theo was still bleeding or if she'd stopped it.

Above her, Theo started talking, almost to himself. "You know, I always admired the way you Gryffindors showed each other friendship." Hermione pressed against the last weeping wound and he sucked in a breath before continuing. "You all  _touch_ so much. Ravenclaws, too. Luna always wanted to hug, always wanted to touch."

Despite herself, Hermioned huffed a laugh. "Luna is an enigma in and of herself." Her gaze flickered to Malfoy, his hand already extending a strip of her cloak, but she shook her head. "It's stopped bleeding." She turned to gaze at Theo, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought the pain. "Theo, Draco is going to move you just a little bit so that I have a better angle. After that, I'm going to use the last of the Dittany to close what I can of the wound." She nodded at Malfoy, and the wizard leaned over his friend, sliding his arm under Theo's shoulder and moving him gently so the firelight glowed on the cuts in his side.

Theo coughed lightly, and Hermione eyed the wound to watch for more blood. "What then?"

She grimaced, eyeing the spot. "I don't think I have enough to heal it completely. I'll have to use Muggle stitches to close it the rest of the way."

Beside her, Malfoy blanched. "But won't that- I don't know, won't it hurt?"

She bit her lip and nodded a bit. "It will. It'll also take a while to heal, so you'll have to be careful. But it'll close it until we can find more Dittany.  _If_  we can find more Dittany."

Above her, Theo groaned. "I don't care what you have to do; just finish this so I can sleep."

She picked up the stoppered Dittany, holding it sideways to get as much of it into the dropper as she could. With a hand raised, Hermione paused, staring up at Draco. "Theo, what did you mean about Gryffindors being so affectionate?" She inclined her head slightly at Theo, and Malfoy's brows puckered, then lifted at her indication.

"I always envied it; you could show your friendship so readily. In Slytherin, everyone was so reserved all the time." He hissed as Hermione dropped the first bit of the potion on his wound, the skin starting to pull together bit by bit.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "You could have, mate. You know we're all family there."

Theo huffed out another pained laugh as Hermione set to work on the next gash. "Nah, not like everyone else. Zabini was always cold; you were always looking over your shoulder, for good reason. And then I met Luna, and I thought maybe I could have what–" He stopped abruptly, eyes shooting toward Malfoy as he paled further in the corner of her gaze.

Hermione paused, watching as Theo schooled his expression. "What? What's wrong?" Her eyes frantically skittered over his side, searching for an explanation for his sudden waxen expression.

Theo blinked, eyes darting between them before he continued without answering. "Luna gave me hope, and I wouldn't be here fighting without her."

With one last drop, Hermione exhausted the last of the Dittany as Theo chattered on before her. She rocked back on her heels, observing the wound. It was better, but it wasn't healed by any means, and she knew that even with her efforts he might catch an infection she couldn't treat. She forced the thought away as she summoned a broken quill from the beaded bag, transfiguring it into a needle and sterilising it in the fire, and then threaded a heavy string from her cloak through the eye.

Theo's eyes were fluttering closed above her, and she met Draco's gaze with a grimace. She tried to keep her voice quiet. "Maybe we ought to stun him?"

"Granger, if you stun me, I'm officially disowning you as a friend," Theo said, his voice raspy with a hint of humour. "Get on with it."

She set her shoulders. "Malfoy, prop his head on something and give him your belt to bite down on. I need your help down here." He did as told, the sound of leather slipping through the loops of his trousers loud in the small room, and then squatted opposite her, watching as she knotted the string. "The wounds are deep; I'll need you to pinch the skin together for me."

A thin veil of sweat had broken out on his forehead, but he nodded once, casting a hasty  _Tergeo_ on his hands. With a muttered  _Lumos_ , he set his wand to hover above them, more light illuminating the area. She paused, assessing the area. "We'll have to careful. The wounds are close; the sutures will put strain on the skin, so we won't be able to leave the cabin for a few weeks."

"Won't the sutures heal before then?" Draco's brow drew down in a harsh lines as he pinched the skin of the topmost laceration.

With a steadying breath, Hermione brought the needle to the surface of Theo's skin and pressed. It was more difficult than she imagined, akin to pressing a needle through several layers of dense fabric, and it was made all the more difficult when Theo tensed beneath her touch and muttered a long string of expletives.

As soon as she broke through the skin, a rush of fresh blood sprang to the surface along the sutures, and she tried to wipe it away quickly to maintain a clear field of vision. Pushing through the surface of the other side proved even more difficult. She cursed herself silently at not having anticipated the angle and transfiguring a straight needle instead of a curved one, but she pressed against the skin with decisive pressure.

She repeated the process for another six sutures, finally reaching the end of the lesion. With slightly shaking hands, she set the needle aside and glanced at Theo's face. A white line outlined his lip where his teeth bit into the skin, and silent tears rolled down his face. After a nod to Draco, she slowly tugged the string until the stitch pulled together, puckering the skin in a slightly jagged line, and she tied it off in a neat knot.

Not her best work, but it would have to do.

She didn't allow herself to pause long, instead inclining her head at the next wound, and Malfoy pinched it together.

They worked in quiet tandem, only Theo's grunts of pain and the crackle of the fire in the hearth surrounding them. When they finally stitched up the last wound, smaller than the rest, and Hermione pulled the string taut, they both sat back on their haunches, observing the work.

"Wasn't so bad, was it, Granger?" Theo's voice was strained, but he still managed a small smile.

With a wave of his wand, Draco summoned a Blood Replenishing potion and a vial of Dreamless Sleep. "Here, mate. Take these." He unstoppered the Blood Replenishing potion and handed it to Theo, who chugged it down with a slight grimace. He tried to push the Dreamless Sleep away, but Draco insisted, unstoppering it and holding it to his lips. "Take it; it's the last we've got and it'll help you sleep off some of the pain."

With a reluctant roll of his eyes, Theo obliged, swallowing it down. WIthin seconds, his eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep slumber.

Without a word, Hermione began to clean up the mess around them. She vanished the blood-covered rags, re-stoppered the vials, and arranged them neatly on the cracked mantle. Her hands shook, but she forced herself onward, hearing Malfoy's quiet spells behind them cleaning the floor of Theo's blood.

Another flick of her wrist sent the bowl of soiled water floating through the air and out the cracked door. She followed it, eyeing the barren landscape around the cabin as she stood on one of the sturdier parts of the old wooden wraparound.

She could hear the silence, as silly as that was, could feel its oppressiveness weighing on her shoulders like a damp blanket. The gaze she'd felt on them earlier was gone, but her instincts told her that something was still out there waiting for them.

The old wooden floor creaked behind her, and the door clicked against the frame as Malfoy closed it behind her. "You did good in there."

"Hmm," she answered, unsure how to respond. She wasn't used to this quiet, speculative Malfoy, and unsteadiness in her stomach reminded just how new this territory was. "I did what had to be done."

Malfoy hummed in response, and silence fell between them for a few moments. In the trees, a branch cracked, and a deer shot off out of a thicket of bushes. They watched it trot off into the woods before he spoke again. "You're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Being so composed like that, sewing up a friend… that's the kind of compartmentalisation I was talking about."

She turned to scrutinise him. "It's not that easy when you're on the battlefield."

"It is, though." He toed a weathered piece of wood. "Using that magic, fighting Death Eaters… it's what you have to do to survive." A beat. "You wouldn't have the magic if you couldn't handle it. You're strong. One of the strongest people I've ever met."

Hermione laughed, a dry, sarcastic sound. "That's why I fell apart in your cellar? Woke up with shattered nails and a throat ripped raw?"

Malfoy flinched, his eyes squeezing shut before he turned and pierced her with a pleading stare. "I told you earlier that I don't expect you to forgive me, but if we're going to make it through this, we have to reach some kind of a truce. This walking on eggshells around one another isn't working."

The truth of his words hit her in her core, a heavy weight lodging itself there as she debated the merits of accepting his truce. But it wasn't just that he was offering her a truce that scared her-it was that she could see regret, deep and true, colouring his eyes a melancholy, stormy grey. And before she realised what she was doing, she stuck out her hand.

He froze, eyeing it hanging in the air, but after a beat, he stepped forward, his hand slipping into hers and shaking it once. His skin was cool to the touch and a bit clammy from their work on Theo still, and she couldn't quell both the hope that this was the beginning of the end and the fear of what she'd learn when she finally got all of the answers.

"A truce, then," she murmured, unable to look him in the eyes, "until we can all learn to trust one another." With a gentle squeeze, she dropped his hand, allowing her own to settle next to her side as she peered out at the trees around them.

Malfoy cleared his throat, joining her side. "How do you think Theo will heal?"

Hermione was grateful for the change of subject, the knot in her gut loosening slightly in relief, but her mind immediately went into overdrive as she thought of their friend. "It's hard to tell. The Dittany closed up the worst of the lacerations, but it's difficult to tell if there was any internal damage. And given we aren't operating in the most sanitary of conditions even  _with_ magic, infection is always a possibility."

Malfoy grimaced, following a bird streak across the night sky. "And if it gets infected?"

Her heart skipped a beat, thinking of the consequences. "It won't be good. We need to keep the sutures as clean as we can and watch out for swelling. They'll start to itch while they heal, so we'll need to make sure he doesn't scratch at them; any scratching will only irritate them further and increase the risk of infection."

"Aren't there plants or herbs that could help?"

She sighed, rocking up onto her toes as she watched snow begin to fall again. "There are, but they don't grow this late in the season. And even if they did… they're buried underneath all of that." She gestured to the snow. "And it's not likely that we can make it out and back without being detected. Something-"

"Someone's out there," Draco interrupted, his own eyes scanning the tree line. "I felt it too; like someone is watching. But the thing is… it doesn't feel threatening to me."

Hermione paused, considering him. He was right, in some regard. It didn't feel threatening. Instead, it almost felt curious, a familiar warmth that she just couldn't place. But she wasn't about to test that theory and frowned. "Even so, it's not safe to leave. We're better off staying together, especially given the last time we split up."

With a hum beneath his breath, Malfoy asked the question she was dreading. "And do you think… could Greyback have infected him?"

Her lips pulled down into a grimace. "It's not likely, since werewolves spread the infection through saliva, but we don't really know exactly what happened, do we?" She cut a glance at him, his own expression tight. "We'll have to wait and see."

"And if he did?" Malfoy didn't meet her eyes.

She pulled her cloak tight against her shoulders. "And if he did, then we deal with it." Her eyes met his, the quiet conviction in her tone settling over them. "We're a team now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to msmerlin13 and LadyKenz347 for alpha work and tofadeaway again's brilliant beta work. I appreciate you all more than words can express.


	28. Five of Pentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! I hope you all have a great week. For my American readers, happy Thanksgiving! May your day be full of family and merriment. For readers outside the U.S., I hope you have a lovely week too! On to the chapter!

**Chapter 28 -** _**Five of Pentacles** _

The night passed slowly. Hermione and Draco took turns without agreeing upon it; any time Theo tossed fitfully in his sleep, one of them got up to check on him.

Just before the first fingertips of sunlight touched the snow blanketing the copse of trees, Theo gasped sharply, and Hermione roused from the light sleep she'd fallen into. With a worried glance at Malfoy, both of them crossed to his side.

His eyes were blown wide, darting side to side as rivulets of sweat ran from his forehead. With a sharp nod to Malfoy, who left her side wordlessly and exited the cabin to gather fresh water, Hermione knelt next to her friend's side. "Theo, you're okay. Draco and I are here. You're safe."

His hand grasped hers tightly, squeezing it in his sweaty palm, and Hermione started at how warm his skin was. With a swear, she squeezed his hand and shot a look over her shoulder at Draco, who had returned with a bowl of water.

He knelt next to her, surveying his friend with a quick look, and spoke. "Theo, mate, how are you doing?"

Theo gasped a shuddering breath. "I'm so  _bloody_  hot, mate. I feel like I'm boiling from the inside out." He shivered once, his whole body seizing with the movement. "But I'm also cold, like my skin is ice." As he spoke, gooseflesh rose along his skin, and Hermione bit her lip in frustration.

Malfoy's eyes were hard when he spoke. "I know it hurts, Nott, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened." It was a command, and for a moment, Hermione was reminded that he was once the Vehme leader that had tormented her.

When Theo stuttered out another breath, the memory broke, and she summoned the remains of her cloak, dipping one of the torn rags into the cool water and swiping it across Theo's brow, wiping away the sweat that had gathered at his hairline. The sharp lines of his face were softened in agony, and Hermione suddenly realised he was quite handsome. His mossy green eyes were framed behind thick lashes, and he had a smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose. Her heart clenched that Luna might never see him again if he didn't make it through this. "Quit staring at me like that, Granger. Makes a bloke think he's dying or something."

The joke fell flat between them, but Draco cracked a wry grin with a chuckle. "She's just thinking about what a relief it would be not to have to see your ugly mug anymore." The difference in his demeanor was stark, and Hermione's stare was wrenched to Draco.

He was so much softer like this, a worried tug to his brow erasing the fine lines that war had etched into his forehead. His grin was screwed to the side crookedly, only the worry in his eyes detracting from the features that were trademarks of the Malfoy men. And Hermione was hit with the sudden realisation that while Theo was handsome, Draco was utterly captivating.

And suddenly, his eyes locked onto hers, shock etched in every line of his face, and she realised with a mortified jolt that her walls were down and she'd just shouted into the void that they both seemed to occupy that she thought he was captivating. With a slam, she threw her walls back into place, remembering the harsh sneer and sharp, clipped tone that she was used to him speaking in. After clearing her throat, she forced an awkward laugh out of her into the silence, looking down at Theo. "I'm just observing for any obvious medical issues, Theo. But Draco is right; we need to know what happened in order to treat you effectively."

All humour disappeared from Theo's face, and his eyes turned glassy as he stared off at the cabin ceiling. After a moment, he spoke. "It was easy to get into his tent. I told them that you'd retired for the evening. Yaxley and Avery jostled me around a bit, but they let me in."

Draco's lip curled into a snarl, but he let Theo continue without interruption.

"Merlin, the inside of his tent is— he looks like a hoarder and an addict. Paraphernalia everywhere and the smoke was so thick I could barely see." He coughed once, wincing as the sutures pulled tight against the jolt. "It smelled sweet, nothing like I've ever encountered, and it made me dizzy. I think that's why this happened." He gestured at the wound in his side. "I felt unsteady, like I couldn't quite get my footing."

Hermione nodded, recalling her own time in Greyback's tent. "I don't know what it is either, but it's likely some sort of tobacco mixed with a hallucinogenic. He's been using it to self-medicate without the Wolfsbane."

Theo's lips thinned. "That's what I thought. Anyway, I gave him the vials, reminded him that the full moon started a week from today, so I told him that you asked me to stay to ensure that he took the potion; I told him that it was to make sure he upheld his end of the deal."

Hermione nodded, holding her breath.

"He took it, but it must have tasted off. He didn't realize until he swallowed, and then his eyes flared orange, and he attacked me." Theo shuddered again, gaze darting back and forth between her and Draco. "I was too slow. I couldn't draw my wand before he was on top of me. And he was sluggish, between the potion and whatever he'd been smoking, but he just kept coming at me."

Beside her, Draco swore under his breath. "You did what you could, Theo. You got out. That's what matters. Did he—"

"—bite me? No. I don't think any saliva got in the wound, either. He was drooling everywhere, but I managed to restrain him after he cut the worst of it." He took a stuttering breath. "The guards heard the commotion and stormed in, but by then the potion had weakened him enough that he couldn't speak, and they thought he had hallucinated my attack. When Greyback turned on them, Yaxley Avada'd him."

Hermione's shoulder's sunk in relief, both that the werewolf was dead and that he hadn't infected Theo—at least, not to their knowledge. She squeezed his hand tightly, a watery smile springing to her face. "You did well, Theo. You got out of there."

He shook his head, eyeing the two of them. "I barely made it out of, but I did what I could, planted memories where I was able. With the amount of blood that's in the tent… well, unless they're smart, they might assume that we've gone off somewhere to die, as long as we lay low."

Dumbfounded silence filled the tent, and Hermione resumed wiping the sweat away from Theo's brow because she didn't know what else to do with her hands. After a moment, she blinked, distantly aware that tears had filled her gaze, but the anger that filled her shortly afterward as his sharp inhale burned them away. "You could have  _died_ , Theo."

A charming smile cracked his grim expression, and he rolled his eyes. "I could have, but I didn't. I'm here!" He waved a hand at himself. "A little worse for the wear, but I'm here."

Beside her, Malfoy cleared his throat, schooling the emotion in his eyes into a firm glare. "You were reckless, and you're damned lucky to be alive." He met Hermione's gaze, and he swallowed. "And you've got a lot to heal from; we'll have to stay here, and we don't have much in the way of supplies."

Theo had the decency to look chagrined. "Didn't think of that, if I'm honest."

Despite everything, Hermione laughed. A shocked belly laugh that burst out of her, but she couldn't stop it. It rang out around them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth even as tears sprang free and rained down her cheeks. Both boys exchanged bewildered expressions, and then Hermione was leaning over Theo, wrapping him in a hug. "Don't  _ever_  do something like that again. You scared the pants off me."

His voice was muffled through the curtain of her hair. "If I'd known it was that easy to get your pants off, I'd have done it ages ago." When she swatted his arm, he raised his hands in supplication with a laugh. "Sorry, Granger. I didn't intend to maim myself." He groaned slightly. "But can you move? It hurts."

She leaned back, hands resting on his shoulders. "I mean it; don't do that again." Then quietly, under her breath as she locked eyes with him. "I don't want to be the one to tell Luna if something happens to you."

The statement seemed to knock the wind out of him because he paled and nodded once. "I won't. Promise."

Draco cleared his throat. "Even if you stunned them, someone might have seen you leave. We need to be vigilant. This place might be under a Fidelius charm, but—"

"But they've been broken before," Hermione finished, remembering Harry's parents with a solemn silence.

"Right," Malfoy confirmed. "We'll take turns keeping watch until Theo is healed enough to travel. And we need to come up with a plan."

Between them, Theo shifted, waving his hand toward the bag he'd brought with him, now splattered with blood. "Granger, the bag."

Brow furrowed, she reached for it, placing it in his hands. He upended it unceremoniously, the contents scattering over the edge of his sleep roll and falling to the floor around them. His keen gaze scanned through it, landing on a parchment, which he pulled from beneath books and a battered old locket with a grimace. "This is how I've been communicating with Luna. She knows the location of the cabin; she's the secret keeper." A blush stained the tips of his ears, but he continued. "We had a system; if she hadn't heard from me in a given amount of hours, she was to extract Narcissa and get to the others."

Hermione froze, staring at him. "The others?"

Malfoy nodded, continuing for Theo when he grimaced and took a deep breath. "My mother has been busy."

She rocked back on her heels, staring between the two boys. "You've both been promising me answers; I've gotten excuse after excuse. Too many people watching. Not enough time." She took a deep breath, exhaling the frustration so her voice was steady when she spoke. "If you want my trust, I suggest you explain what's going on. Now."

With a decisive nod, Draco answered. "The quick version, then, so we can move on and help Theo."

She made a noise of protest in the back of her throat, and Malfoy raised his hand to stop her. "I'll tell you more tonight; but right now, we need to get food and get Theo comfortable. No more excuses after that." He sighed, looking down at his hands. "We're out of the woods for now." He smiled a bit at his own joke and then continued. "My mother has been working with the Order since she married my father in 1973."

Hermione's world screeched to a halt, questions slamming into one another faster than she could formulate them. "What?" The word fell dumbly from her lips.

Malfoy smiled grimly. "She saw Tom Riddle in school, saw the way that he wove his words together to create this web of disgusting prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-borns, and she knew that it was dangerous. One of her best friends was a Muggle-born, despite her parents' disgust, and she knew that she needed to help. So she turned to Lily."

A disbelieving laugh left Hermione's lips as she stared at him. "Lily… Lily Potter?"

Draco shrugged. "It was Lily Evans when they became friends, but yes, Lily Potter. She and Evans met on the train to Hogwarts, and they were fast friends. At least, that's what she said." Malfoy paused before continuing. "She's the one who told my mother about the Order, and without her, I don't know what Mother would have done."

Hermione blinked several times, not quite believing her ears. "So you're trying to tell me that not only was Narcissa Malfoy friends with Lily Evans, but Lily  _invited one of the most prominent pure-blood wives_ into the Order?" She scoffed. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't find that exactly convincing."

Malfoy shrugged. "You can believe me or not; that choice is yours. Either way, it's the truth, so you'll have to come to terms with that on your own. Now—" he gestured to Theo, who was glancing between them with a drawn brow and an odd expression. "—help Theo."

She wanted to push her luck, urge him to keep explaining, but she nodded, peeling the tattered robe she'd used as a makeshift bandage over the sutures. She breathed a relieved sigh when she saw that they appeared normal; no infection had set it. "They look good so far," she noted, peering at each one in turn. "As long as no saliva got in the wounds, you'll be fine. But you know Bill Weasley?"

Theo nodded. "What about him?"

"He was attacked by Greyback when he went in to get some of the students out of Hogwarts after Dumbledore's death. You won't turn since you weren't bitten, but you'll likely have some side effects akin to lycanthropy."

With a roll of his eyes, Theo said, "Quit hedging your words, Hermione. What's going to happen?"

She huffed, covering the sutures once more. "You'll likely crave raw meat." Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Sometimes you might experience a slight change in your vision; you'll be able to see more clearly at night. Some people experience eye colour changes when processing heightened emotions. You'll have a permanent scar from the scratches since I didn't have any silver to mix in the Dittany to help heal it, but you should be fine as long as no infection sets in."

He nodded. "I can handle that." With an audible swallow, he met her gaze. "Can I write a message to Luna? Just to let her know—"

Hermione shook her head, shifting the parchment that still sat in her lap away from him. "You can't tell her what happened. Not through this. I know that you've charmed it so only the intended can read it, but if she's been captured…" Bile rose in her throat at the thought, but she quickly pushed it away, clearing her throat. "If she's been captured, they could force her to read it and tell them what it says."

Malfoy followed her thought, explaining. "If she's been caught and they read that, they would know we've been compromised and force her to give up our location. We'd be attacked, but Luna… she could be killed."

Theo rubbed a trembling hand over his features, smoothing away the fear that had awakened in his eyes. "I'll just let her know we made it out alive. That's it." He swallowed, eyeing the parchment. "She'll know what it means, and they'll do their best to get here."

Hermione nodded, handing the parchment to him and summoning a quill and book. With trembling hands, he scratched down the brief message, and they all watched as the ink glowed gold and sank into the parchment, disappearing.

With a heavy breath, he said, "And now we wait."

"Now we wait," Malfoy echoed. He cracked his knuckles, gaze landing on the door. "Granger, a word?"

She inclined her head, tucking the transfigured quilt back around Theo. "Are you okay?"

Theo's eyelids were drooping, but he smiled. "I'm fine, Granger. Just need to sleep for a bit while the pain isn't too bad."

She stood, following Malfoy out the door. The sun had risen over the trees, and water had begun to drip from the melting snow on the dilapidated porch roof. "He's not in good shape, but he'll pull through it."

Even though it was a statement, Hermione heard the question in it. "He will; like you said, he's a strong wizard. He'll be okay at the end of it all." With a wave of her wand, she transfigured some of the fallen beams into two chairs, and they both sat.

"How do you do that?" Malfoy's voice was quiet, contemplative, and she glanced at him. He stared out at the trees, and when she didn't respond, he cut his gaze to her. "The warmth; you've had a warming charm going since Theo got here."

Hermione straightened, surprise jolting through her. She hadn't even realized it, but he was right; the air around them was comfortable despite the season, and the snow around them had started melting faster at its exposure to the spell. "I didn't know," she answered honestly. "It just happens sometimes; I don't know how to stop it."

Malfoy hummed, staring at her. "I've always admired that about you."

Her gaze cut to him, his lip drawn between his teeth. "Admired what?"

He stretched his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankle as he contemplated his answer. "You're so honest. I was raised to be evasive, but you? you just shoulder forward... just shoulder forward, unafraid of how it appears. Courage is one thing, but you seem to embrace it without fear of the consequences."

Hermione laughed, studying his clear discomfort. "My parents taught me to believe that not knowing the answer to something isn't shameful. Seeking the answer and being unafraid to confront the unknown makes you strong."

Malfoy considered her words, his head tilted to the side. "Suppose so. Explains all of that reckless abandon you've got."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you always seemed like such a Ravenclaw. I never got it; now I do. Hermione Granger, courageous in her pursuit of knowledge. Surprisingly enough, you're one of the bravest people I've ever met."

_Brave_? It almost sounded like a compliment from him, but she couldn't imagine that him calling anyone brave was supposed to complimentary. "If I didn't want answers to everything, I don't think I'd still be here," she said slowly. "This whole time, I've just wanted to know  _why._  Why not just kill me? Why not just get rid of me?" She considered him. "I didn't have that answer, and even when I thought about giving up, I couldn't."

Silence for a moment, and then. "You wanted to know why…"

The tone of his voice was hesitant, and Hermione turned to look at him. "I did. I  _do_."

He straightened, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his trousers, and Hermione recognised the nervous gesture. When she opened her mouth to tell him to get on with it, he turned to her, staring at the spot between her shoulder and head as though he was unable to meet her gaze. "You remember what Theo said, about being practiced at planting memories, correct?"

Her brow drew down, not following his statement, but she nodded anyway. "I do, Malfoy, but what does that have to do with wanting to know why?"

When he finally met her gaze, the depths of sorrow and pain that were painted in his eyes startled her. She drew her breath in to stop him, her heart hammering within her as she was suddenly unsure that she wanted to know the answer, but he continued anyway. With a statement reminiscent of his mother's, Draco said, "You're such a large part of so much, Granger. And Theo… he planted memories in your mind, and he changed others. I can give you the answers, but you might hate me at the end of this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I oop. Cliffhanger. I'm really excited for the next few chapters. Like, stupid excited. They might be some of the writing I'm most proud of, so hold on to your hats (and if you hate it, please be kind, my dudes). Shout out to LadyKenz347 for her wonderful Alpha work. My beta this week is grammarly as my actual beta is out sick, so send her well wishes and healing thoughts, please!


	29. The Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! This is a bit early tonight because I have to work my part time job. I hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 29 -** _**The Star** _

Draco's words echoed in her ears, mixing together until all she could hear was a dull ringing noise.

She spoke slowly, her voice low and tinged with confusion. "What do you mean, Theo planted memories?"

Malfoy leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he watched her. "Granger, you have to realise that we only did this because we wanted to protect you. Some of the things that happened afterward… we didn't want to hurt you. And we had no way of knowing how you'd react once those memories were planted."

The longer he delayed, the angrier she got, and magic started to crackle at her fingertips. Her voice was full of warning. "Malfoy."

He sighed, leaning back in the chair, and his expression fell. "The first time Theo changed your memories was the end of fifth year."

All of the anger went out of her, and she collapsed backward, cold dread unfurling in her stomach. "Theo… Theo  _Obliviated_ me?"

Draco swallowed, looking at her. "Well, no, he didn't  _technically Obliviate_  you; he changed your memories." Her blood boiled as he tried to argue the semantics with her, and the temperature rose palpably. With a visible swallow, he continued. "He had to, Granger. It was too dangerous. We'd just received orders from the Dark Lord, and you were too close. We needed to practise to keep you safe."

Hundreds of emotions swirled in her, and no matter how hard she tried to keep up, she couldn't follow his words. "I don't understand what you're talking about, Malfoy."

He paused, his fingers clenching at his sides. "Bugger. Best to start at the beginning then." With a sigh, he leveled an earnest stare at her. "It started in fourth year, just after the World Cup."

The floor seemed to fall out from beneath her as his words crashed into her. They were like a wave, threatening to drag her under. " _Fourth_ year? Malfoy,  _what in Merlin's name_ —"

He leaned forward, his gaze pleading. "Do you remember what happened after the World Cup in fourth year?"

Did she remember? As if it was yesterday, memories of the burning tents, the acrid smell of old canvas smouldering in the night, and screams of terror rose in her mind. She'd run, trying to get away, as Death Eaters marched through the camping grounds, Muggles writhing in the air above them. Hermione had wanted to stop, to help them, and she'd been running with tears in her eyes at her own helplessness, at the guilt she felt at leaving them in such a dire situation. But she couldn't do anything, and so she'd barrelled into the treeline, straight into Malfoy. "They were torturing Muggles, and I was trying to get away, to find Harry and Ron. And I ran into you."

Malfoy nodded, a soft smile belying the sadness in his eyes. "That was the first time I ever really understood just how dire the war was, and it was also the first time I specifically remember thinking that it was wrong, so  _incredibly_  wrong, and I didn't want any part of it. I was supposed to be with them; my father was there. He'd taken me from the tent, leaving Mother behind, but I couldn't go through with it, so I ran. And when you found me, I was crying and Nott was trying to convince me to go to Dumbledore for help, but—"

Hermione started, leaning forward as the gears in her mind turned as she recalled the memory as though it was yesterday. "But that's not what happened. When I found you, you taunted me. You said to keep my big, bushy head down—"

"That they were after Muggles and you wouldn't want to show your knickers off midair. That's the first of the memories." Draco smiled sadly. "You stopped when you saw us. I was slumped against the tree, crying so hard I couldn't see, and you looked frightened, but  _Merlin_ , I remember thinking that you looked so beautiful, an avenging angel—that's what Muggles call them, right?—with the firelight illuminating your hair and turning your skin golden."

Hermione watched him, his face lost in the past as she desperately tried to recall the memory he was lost in. "I don't— I can't remember it. All I remember is that you taunted me, and I ran to find Harry and Ron."

His smile turned wistful. "Theo's good at what he does." He studied his hands for a moment before he continued. "Theo was dragging me upright, trying to get me to the camp and to Mother—he already knew, at that point, that my mother wasn't loyal to the Dark Lord—but you startled us, and we stood there, staring each other down until you joined Theo and offered me your hand."

And as she pushed, trying to remember what he was talking about, her memory shimmered, just a bit, and an image of her hand extending to a rumpled and filthy Draco flickered before her gaze before fading away. "It's there," she breathed, gaze filling with tears as she pushed again. The memory held firmly in place. She swallowed a breath. "What else did you make me forget?"

Silence descended between them as droplets of water bounced on the fallen wood. "So much, Granger.  _Too_ much." His voice was broken, and he stood, approaching the collapsed steps. He glanced at her over his shoulder. "We need to find something for Theo to—"

"No, I'm not done." Tears had gathered at the corners of her eyes as she pushed and pushed to remember, but nothing wavered, and the moisture spilled over silently. She wiped the tears away angrily, standing and beginning to pace, trying to sidestep the holes in the porch. "Tell me."

"Granger, I—" Draco began, but he cut himself off at her sharp gaze. "It's a lot, and I—"

"I don't care, Malfoy. I don't care if it takes all day. I deserve to know. They're my memories, and if you don't tell me—" The threat left unfinished between them, she plopped into the chair, her shoulders slumping. "I just want to know."

He sighed. "You offered to help us. I don't know why. Neither of us had exactly been kind to you before, but maybe you could feel the desperation I was drowning in. That was the day that I realised that everything I'd been taught by my father was steeped in hatred. I just wanted to change, and you offered a way out."

Hermione nodded for him to continue, and he did. "You helped us get back to Mother's tent, and then told us that there was a place we could meet in Hogwarts if we wanted your help; you said you'd read about it once." That startled a laugh out of her, and he continued. "The Room of Requirement."

She started, the name familiar and forgotten in light of the war. "That's where—"

"Dumbledore's Army trained in fifth year," he finished, nodding to her, and she stared at him, mouth agape. "I wasn't part of it," he quickly noted, "but you trained us there after they met, teaching us the same thing that Harry taught you all."

And suddenly, something in her clicked, her mouth hanging open. "That's how you know how to cast a Patronus;  _I_ taught you?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms as he resumed his seat, facing her again. "You did. You taught us there for almost two years, before the Dark Lord gave me the task of fixing the cabinet."

"I remember the vanishing cabinet," she whispered. "It's how the Death Eaters got into the castle, but I don't remember teaching you."

Malfoy stared down at his clasped hands. "I wouldn't expect you to; like I said, Theo is good at memory charms, and he made sure to weave them as well as he could, tying them to real events so you wouldn't suspect anything."

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she contemplated his statement. So much of it seemed real, and she couldn't find it in her to find a place to begin questioning. And so she started with the most unbelievable part of it all. "So… we were… friends?" The notion felt foreign to her, but she tested the weight of it on her tongue.

Malfoy smiled wistfully, his gaze shuttering as he answered. "We were friends, Granger. You saved Theo and I. You put yourself in danger quite often to save us, and you risked your friends finding out and deserting you, but you worked with us, helped us learn how to defend ourselves. Theo and I quite literally owe our lives to you."

She didn't know how to respond, instead staring at her hands as the new knowledge flooded her mind.

He stood again, gazing back through the cracked doorway. When he looked back at her, his expression was torn. "I'll tell you more, Granger, but we need to find Theo food. He needs it to heal."

She nodded, too dumbfounded to respond. His statement had wound a knot in her chest, and she suddenly doubted everything she remembered about her last three years at Hogwarts. As he stood and made for the steps, she called after him, "Draco?"

He turned, his expression guarded even as he raised a brow at her.

Hermione swallowed the vestiges of anger that his revelation brought, trying in vain to understand when she only had a fraction of the picture. "Thank you." She cleared her throat, standing. "I'm still angry, and I have no idea what's going on, but… thank you."

Malfoy's shoulders drooped with relief, his expression opening fractionally. "I'll explain as best I can, Granger."

She nodded, following him to the porch edge.

They left the cabin together in silence after placing several more wards around it, trekking out into the snow. After a moment, Malfoy cleared his throat. "The perimeter of the Fidelius Charm is about twenty yards in every direction of the cabin. There are also protection charms layered around the cabin. Don't leave it; without one of us, I don't know that you'd be able to find your way back to the cabin even if you managed to stumble back under the protections."

She didn't respond, watching the ground in front of them. "How do you think we'll find anything out here this late in the winter?"

Malfoy shrugged. "You saw the deer earlier. There's life out here somewhere; we just have to catch it."

Overhead, the sun beat down on them, and despite the snow around them, Hermione soon grew warm from the warming charm and the heat of the sun. As they trudged in a wide circle, snow melting in the wake of her charm while they alternated their gazes between the trees and the ground, Hermione dove back through every memory she could to examine the truthfulness of it.

Some of them were easy enough to unravel if she focused on them, stumbling gracelessly through the trees behind Draco. They flickered at the edges, the hazy quality enough to make her pause and push against them, and when they finally gave way, she was swallowed by an onslaught of the past.

An afternoon tucked away in a dark corner of the library turned into a dueling session between Draco and Theo that she carefully watched, offering critiques and praise. A walk around the Black Lake was an afternoon studying Ancient Runes with Theo. A lonely evening in the Room of Requirement cleaning up the tattered remains of pillows from defensive spells was Draco and her laughing together as they transfigured fallen feathers back into pillows and—

Malfoy's arm flew out, stopping her mid-step. They'd nearly circumvented the entire cabin, and in front of them, a deer stood rooting through the snow, trying to get to the grass beneath it. It wasn't large, but it was clearly well-fed. Slowly, he withdrew his wand, green light flashing from its tip and striking the deer in the side, his gaze carefully shuttered.

Malfoy was  _sorry_  to kill the deer, and she couldn't reconcile him with the one that she'd come to know.

Or, she corrected herself, that her memories told her she'd come to know.

With a silent flick of his wand, the deer's carcass rose from the ground, and it floated past them toward the cabin. Though she tried not to stare, her gaze snagged on the wide, open eyes that stared unseeing at her as it sailed past.

A shiver worked its way up her spine, wrapping around her heart as she followed Malfoy in silence. How she had gotten here, her entire world turned upside down in the aftermath of one conversation, still reeled in her mind. And when Malfoy carefully cleared a patch of snow in front of the cabin and gently laid the deer down, she couldn't handle it anymore. "Can you take care of that?"

He looked over his shoulder at her, questions evident in his features. "I can. Is everything okay?"

She shook her head, striding past him quickly. "I'm going to check on Theo. I'll… I'll be back in a while." She didn't allow him time to answer, instead jogging up the steps and closing the door behind her.

Safely within the cabin, she pressed her back to the door, and emotions overwhelmed her. The knot that had tied itself together in her stomach pulled painfully tight, and she covered her mouth with her hand, trying in vain to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. A small squeak instead slipped loose, and she slid down the door as panicked gasps slipped loose as tried to draw in desperate breaths.

How much of what she knew from the past few years was a lie? How much had been taken from her? She couldn't fathom such a gaping loss in her memory, but then her stomach jolted when she realized that she'd done the same thing to her parents. She'd taken not only a few years and changed them, though; she'd erased her very existence from their memories. And then someone had broken the spell just before they died and used it to torment them in their final moments.

Shoulders shaking at the ferocity of her panic, she allowed herself to break down even as she battered the memory in her mind. Over and over again, on a loop, she saw Malfoy taunting her, his words echoing in her mind.  _Keep that big bushy head down, Granger._ The edges of the memory still glistened, the only indication that it was counterfeit, and she sighed in frustration as she slumped back against the door and stared at the ceiling.

"Granger?" Theo's voice was quiet in the room, and she snapped her gaze to him, not having considered that he'd be awake to witness the breakdown. He was propped up on one elbow, his face a sheen of sweat.

She wiped her eyes quickly, pushing herself to her feet. "Sorry, Theo." She sniffled,crossing the room and avoiding his gaze. With a clucking noise, she pushed against his shoulder. "You need to lay down. Leaning up on your elbow like that could put strain on the sutures."

Theo obliged, leaning back softly as she guided him. His eyes roamed her face, trying to seek out what had caused her to cry. "Granger, what's wrong?"

She hummed instead of answering him, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. Still no fever. She resumed her work, peeling back the wrapping. "You'll need to let these breathe for a bit, so don't wrap them up. I'm going to clean them since you've had a little bit of blood seep out, but that's normal."

He didn't respond, carefully watching her still as she waved her wand over him in a diagnostic spell. When it came back normal, she continued. Checking him over and providing medical care returned a semblance of control back to her, and she sank into the careful examination. After a moment, he gently grabbed her wrist, and her eyes shot to him. "Hermione, what happened?"

"Did you Obliviate me?" The accusation spilled out of her before she could stop it, and she felt Theo freeze beneath her. She wrenched her hand away, continuing to clean the wound, noting a section that would require a bit more attention than the others, and wiped away another spot of dried blood, waiting for his response.

After a tense moment, he said, "Granger, you have to understand that I didn't  _want_ to." His gulp was audible. When she looked up at him, his expression was contrite, and he spoke quietly. "You asked me to."

" _What?_ " It came out in a sharp squawk, and both of them flinched.

"You knew that it was risky, especially once we got into fifth and sixth year." He placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention upward. "But you wouldn't hear otherwise. It started small; mostly practise, trying to determine what would work and what wouldn't."

With a harsh laugh, she had to admit that it sounded like her. Harry and Ron had always told her that she was far too stubborn for her own good. After a moment, she said, "Can you take it away? The false memories, I mean. Can you give me back the real ones?"

Theo was quiet. "I can try. I've never tried to reverse them before, and I don't think I could do it all at once. They may also come back on their own since you're aware of them. But right now—" He gestured down at his side. "It'll have to wait until this is healed, or at least mostly healed. Right now, I can't concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time, and I don't want to hurt you."

"Right."

Hermione settled beside him on the floor, staring into the flames dancing in the hearth. She tried to page through her memories, watching for the tell-tale shimmer that they weren't quite right, but there was just so much to wade through, so many times she'd separated from the boys for an afternoon that she couldn't discern when she was actually going to the library and when it had been manufactured for her. Her stomach was somewhere in the vicinity of her feet when she asked, "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

She swallowed, emotion settling painfully in her throat. "What was our friendship like?"

Theo chuckled sardonically, wincing in the corner of her eye when the movement pulled his stitches. "Weird, at first. You were bossy." He cut his gaze to her. "Still are. But it was nice. Nothing like the friends I had in Slytherin." He thought for a moment. "If I had to describe it, I'd call it warm; and you introduced me to Luna, so I suppose I owe you one for that one."

She allowed a grin at that, thinking about what it would have been like to see Theo and Luna together, but her smile faltered, remembering the anxiety that seemed to plague her in every memory, the restlessness that seemed foundational to her very being, and she couldn't maintain the happy facade. "And with Malfoy?"

Theo glanced away, his face carefully blank as he studied the quilt she'd transfigured and draped over his legs. "You guys argued a lot. You're both very stubborn, and he didn't like to give an inch. Of course, when he  _did_ give a centimetre, you'd take a kilometre." He grinned. "You challenged us, and it made us grow." Another beat. "I wouldn't be half the wizard I am now without your help."

The fire popped, sending sparks upward, and a small piece of ash landed on her outstretched legs. "I remembered just a bit, when we first met at the World Cup. Shaking your hands. That's it."

He nodded. "It's not likely that you'd be able to remember alone. We'll have to work on them magically, and we may have to show you ours before you remember."

If it was possible, her stomach sank even lower. "And if they don't come back?"

This time, Theo sat upright on the cot, swinging his legs over the edge even as he grimaced at the pain, and Hermione shot up, bracing his back while hissing at him to stay still. Suddenly, though, he grasped her hand, forcing her to look at him. "If they don't come back, we'll show you ours. We'll find a Pensieve somewhere and do whatever it takes. And we'll gain your trust back."

A quiet knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Draco entered with a chagrined look on his face. In one hand, he held a transfigured cup, and the other his wand, floating a transfigured plate and cooked meat toward Theo.

"Granger and I found some food while you were resting; it's cooked deer. Not great, but it'll do." Draco settled at the end of Theo's cot, refusing to look at Hermione, and he settled the plate on his friend's lap. "Eat. You need it to keep your strength up while you heal."

The smell of the cooked meat settled in the air around them, and Hermione's stomach rumbled loudly. Despite herself, she laughed, dissolving the tension around them. With another flick of his wrist, Malfoy summoned two more transfigured plates, both floating through the air and settling before them.

The three of them tucked into their meal, a companionable, if tense, silence settling over them. Hermione tried not to compare the group to her friendship with Harry and Ron, but she still found herself doing it. Theo and Draco quietly talked to each other over their food, discussing a strategy that she couldn't keep up with. They mentioned houses and estates of other Pure-bloods, rumoured sympathisers, and interspersed jabs and inside jokes among the serious conversation.

The largest difference she noted between the two was that it seemed to be an easy camaraderie, no sense of jealousy twinging the words that they traded. It was refreshing, to listen to the two friends talk without hearing a sour tone to either of their voices. She'd grown so used to Ron always trying to one-up Harry that it surprised her to hear the genuine laughter and easy conversation.

Soon, she pushed her plate to the side, having finished everything that was on it, and stretched her feet toward the fire. As the warmth seeped into the soles, she relaxed for the first time since Malfoy's revelation, not realising that their conversation had suddenly cut off behind her.

"Granger?" Draco's voice was tentative, and she glanced back at the two of them. Theo was grasping a piece of parchment in his hand, and she could see it trembling even from the distance.

Heart in her throat, she turned, wand out and ready if they needed to leave. When Theo looked at her, tears had gathered in his eyes as relief brought much-needed colour back to his cheeks. "It's Luna; they made it out. They're okay, and they're going to try to make it here."

Draco shoved his plate to the side. "And my mother?"

Theo nodded, motioning both of them to the parchment. When Hermione leaned over it, her brow furrowed. The markings on the parchment were certainly  _words_ , but they didn't make any discernible sense to her. "It's a code. Bunny is what I called her because of her Patronus— _not a word,_ Malfoy. Raven is your mother, also for her Patronus."

Hermione nodded, understanding. "And the last bit?"

Theo huffed a laugh. "Luna told me about a Muggle film she saw once, in which they used the phrase 'flew the coop' to mean that they escaped, and she insisted that she needed a magical equivalent, so she came up with one featuring her magical creatures: spooked the demiguise."

Hermione couldn't contain her chuckle at her friends' eccentricities. "And the last part?"

Theo frowned, squinting at the last word, scratched hastily. "I can't quite read it, but it worries me. It's rushed, and Luna is typically deliberate in her penmanship, even if it is a bit… whimsical."

Dread unfurled in her stomach, watching as he wrote a single word on the parchment, flaring brilliantly before disappearing. "What now?"

"Now we wait," he said solemnly, his gaze flickering to the cracked door. "They'll Apparate in short distances, crossing and recrossing terrain to lose anyone that might be following them."

Draco stood, conjuring a small, four-legged Patronus that Hermione couldn't make out. He spoke quietly, sending it out the open doorway. When he turned back to them, his voice was clipped. "It'll find my mother if anything has happened to them. If we don't hear back, it's a good sign."

A lead weight settled in her stomach. "And if we do?"

Theo answered, grim lines etched around his mouth. "If we do, then they've been compromised. And we move on. We'll give them a week; it's always been the plan. And if there's any indication the Fidelius Charm has been compromised, we leave. No matter my condition, we get out."

With a curse under his breath, Malfoy stormed out of the cabin and into the falling night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so first: the obliviate spell isn't italicized once here (when Hermione asks Theo about it); this was an intentional stylistic choice suggested by my beta (the PHENOMENAL tofadeawayagain) because it almost read like Hermione was putting emphasis on it; since that was not the case, I've chosen to leave it in normal font. 
> 
> But beyond that, Hermione is not a reliable narrator, and the pieces are beginning to fall into place. These chapters have been a labor of love (and sometimes hate lol) because I have literally twenty pages of notes that I check and cross check each time I write; some of the threads that have been woven in since the beginning are weaving together, and I'm really excited to see what you guys think! P.S. This was nearly part of chapter 28 too, but LadyKenz (my alpha, my love, and one of my dearest friends) told me to split it in two. So that last cliffhanger wasn't entirely on me lol thanks again for reading, and I'll see you guys next week!


	30. Five of Wands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cannoli, happy Tuesday, everyone! I apologize for this being a couple hours late; today was... well, a day lol but I wanted to say thank you all so much for helping this reach 400 followers on FFN! It's the most I've ever had for a fic before, and I'm honored and excited to be sharing this story with you. <3

**Chapter 30 -** **_Five of Wands_ **

A general sense of foreboding settled over the cabin as the hours passed. 

 

It didn’t help that Malfoy’s Patronus hadn’t returned; it didn’t even help that Theo’s high spirits  _ had _ returned. He was trying to crack jokes, but they all fell flat between the three of them, and Hermione’s gaze strayed to the cracked door more often than she cared to admit.

 

Every time a branch creaked outside, Draco shot up. His shoulders had been locked into a stiff set since he’d sent the Patronus out the window, and it put Hermione on edge. 

 

“Malfoy,  _ sit down _ . You’re driving me spare. It’s been less than twelve hours; they’re on their way.” Theo’s voice held a rare note of irritation in it, and he huffed triumphantly when Malfoy spun around and plopped onto the other end of the sofa that Hermione had transfigured. 

 

Hermione tried not to dwell on the sick dread that had settled deep in her belly, the worry that drew her shoulders up around her ears as though she could shield them from the bad news she was worried was inevitable. In an effort to distract herself, she stretched her hand out before her, watching the magic run the length of her splayed fingers.

 

If she concentrated just enough, she could feel the subtle nuances in it that allowed the tendrils to dance across her fingers. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was alive for how it seemed to caress her and weave amongst her fingertips. It sung with power, and Hermione was transfixed even as her worry ate her alive.

 

Anger still pulsed in her magic, amplified by the volatility of the powerful depths finally released within her, but it was tempered now by the small measure of understanding Theo and Draco had given her. Coupled with a fierce desire to explore its depths, she allowed the magic to coat her hands in a thin film of ice before she flexed her hand, watching it shatter.

 

“You’re getting better at control,” Malfoy observed from the far cushion. He seemed almost as transfixed by the magic dancing over her hand as she was, but his eyes flickered to hers. 

 

She allowed a small smile, feeling the truth of his statement in her bones. “It helps,” she mused, “to know that there might be an explanation to all this.” Neither of the boys answered, so she chanced a glance at Theo. “Will you tell me what happened? To pass the time?”

 

His lips thinned, but he didn’t respond, so she summoned her bag. With a wave of her wand, she summoned the stack of books she’d packed within and guided them to settle neatly before her.

 

Wrinkling his nose at the book stack as Hermione settled beside him to check his wound for the umpteenth time, Theo spoke, “Granger, I don’t mean to offend you, but—“

 

“Then you ought to stop talking.” She pressed the bandage against his arm harder than was necessary, and he flinched harshly. “And if you’re not going to stop talking, then you could make yourself useful and explain all the things you haven’t told me yet.”

 

He inclined his head, but she didn’t miss the shame that washed over his expression. “Where should I start?”

 

She waved the wand, watching as faint green glow settled over him and then sank into the skin of his abdomen. A good sign, then, that infection hadn’t settled in. “I find the beginning is always a good place to start.” She tried to force a sternness into her tone that was reminiscent of McGonagall, and when she arched an eyebrow, Theo’s cheeks reddened. 

 

He hummed to himself, watching her fingers dance over the wound. “I didn’t want to help you; I just wanted to get Draco back to his tent before his father found out he’d left. Do you remember what he said?”

 

She froze over him, words all competing to escape but lodging in her throat. As much as she wanted the answers this conversation promised, she wasn’t sure that she could handle them. Clearing her throat, she answered him. “They’re after Muggles, Granger. D’you want to show your knickers off midair?” The words were burned into her memory from the number of times she’d played them over in the last twenty-four hours, the moment that Draco Malfoy had solidified himself as her enemy.

 

Beneath her, Theo shifted, a sad smile tilting his lips upward. “Not quite.” 

 

Affixing the last of the newest bandage, she settled backward onto her haunches. “Tell me.”

 

Theo sighed. “It would be easier if I could show you.” 

 

A gentle prodding at her Occlumency shields accompanied the words, and Hermione reeled backward ungracefully, thudding to her behind as she looked up at him. “Do you mean— Legilimency?”

 

He nodded once. “If you see… it might help you remember. I don’t want you to take my word for it; I know you, Granger, and I know you won’t believe it until you remember it. And we don’t have much time. I’ll be healed soon, and we’ll need to move on.” He shifted, wincing as the stitches pulled tight. “You're the one who wanted to remember, Granger.” 

 

A gentle creaking behind her drew her gaze, and she glanced over her shoulder, watching Malfoy advance wordlessly. He settled on the end of the bed, watching her with a wary gaze. 

 

This was the moment.

 

And although she was terrified of what she might learn, she wanted, more than anything, to understand, and so she nodded, rearranging herself on the floor as she lowered her Occlumency shield.

 

It was like shrugging off a winter cloak, shedding a downy jacket that had been soaked by a heavy rain and was weighing her down, and she reeled in the sudden lightness that filled her. When she looked at Theo again, his gaze had softened. Allowing this required a certain level of trust that he had earned, and by the look in his eyes, he understood the significance it had taken to do so. “I’m ready.”

 

And then images flooded her mind. 

 

Her breath stuck painfully in her throat as the scene pushed behind her lids, filling in the blanks she hadn’t thought to question before. Pieces clicked quickly into place, everything settling into a new reality as she watched Theo take her hand, helping him to his feet. Then, suddenly, she was dragged back to the cabin, sucking ragged breaths through her teeth as she fought the onslaught of new information..

 

Both Theo and Malfoy’s gazes were steady on her as she scrambled for purchase within the memories.

 

Theo’s brows flickered up in surprise. “Do you remember?” 

 

She carded through the new information, trying to distinguish reality from what had been substituted for truth, the images flickering through her mind again as she watched, but she shook her head. Draco’s shoulders slumped incrementally.  “It fits. It’s—” She wracked her brain, trying to put words to the way it made her feel. “It’s like a vase full of rocks; the memories feel full, they feel like they should be  _ enough _ , but then that was like… it was like pouring a glass of water in the vase and watching as it filled in all the spaces I wasn’t even aware were there until I looked.”

 

Both of the boys considered her for a moment before Draco leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. A hand rubbed over the stubble as he eyed her for a moment, and then, “May I?” he gestured between them.

 

Adrenaline shot through her, flashes of altogether different memories assaulting her. Malfoy coming down the stairs to her cage. Malfoy directing Crabbe and Goyle to do what they could to her. Malfoy watching as Zabini broke her. Goosebumps raced one another up her arms, and Hermione fought the fear that coursed through her veins, the sharp desire to run. Malfoy’s gaze darkened, fierce disappointment flitting across his features, and then Hermione’s fear turned to determination and she straightened.

 

“Do it.” Her voice was clear, though it shook slightly. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I want to remember— _ need _ to. Please.” 

 

Malfoy nodded and leaned forward. 

 

The image unfurled slowly in her mind, and she balked at how gently he tread. She couldn’t call it an intrusion—if she’d been in any other state than waking and hadn’t asked for him to show her, she might have thought it was recalled of her own volition. 

 

She quickly recognized the stone walls of the Room of Requirement stretching before her. The room was empty, but footsteps behind her drew her attention, and she turned, watching as she approached younger versions of Theo and Draco.

 

_ “It’s no use, Granger. I can’t make anything happen. It’s just whisps.” Theo’s voice was sharp.  _ She couldn’t help the smile that lifted her lips at the frustration in his tone, walking hesitantly forward. 

 

_ The memory of her smiled too, shaking her head at him. “Tell me what you’re concentrating on.” _

 

_ An exasperated sigh escaped Theo’s lips. “When I got my first wand.” _

 

_ It was a fond memory, she could tell, but it wasn’t happy enough. “Think harder—what’s the one thing that’ll make you happy no matter what?” _

 

_ Draco was the one to answer. “Mother used to chase me around the gardens when Father was gone.” He cradled his wand between his fingertips, his eyes lost in memories with a hazy glaze. “Her laughter would ring out among the rose bushes, and I’d try to stay hidden for as long as I could—prolonging the moment to avoid returning to the Manor.” _

 

_ Memory-her nodded encouragingly, and her breath hitched in her throat as she watched Draco’s grip on his wand tighten, a rare curving of his lips indicating his pleasure. “When she caught me, she’d wrap her arms around my waist and spin me in a circle.” He smiled, then, the vibrancy of it catching her off guard, and the memory of her matched his smile with brilliant warmth. “She was radiant—so full of vitality and youth and happiness, and I never wanted the moment to end.” His voice was wistful, and memory-her leaned forward, her eyes glittering, though she couldn’t tell if it was with tears or anticipation. _

 

_ “Try it now,” she prodded, voice low. _

 

_ With a deep breath, Draco paused. “Expecto Patronum.” A whisper, barely there but still brimming with hope and happiness and a thousand other emotions lacing the words. A brilliant flare of blue light flashed from the tip of his wand. _

 

_ For a moment, she couldn’t tell what the creature was, but it sailed through the air between them. When it landed at his feet, a gasp emitted from his. “I did it.”  _

 

_ And then they were laughing, Theo and Draco high-fiving each other, and Hermione watched as Draco shot her a private smile as he laced his fingers between hers.  _

 

She wrenched backward, slamming her walls up as questions hurtled through her mind.

 

_ What the bloody hell?  _

 

She didn’t have a chance to question the sorrow that flit across Malfoy’s face or the resignation that lit Theo’s eyes as a whimsical voice issued through the air outside. In unison, they all whipped their heads toward the door. “Theo? Hermione?” 

 

Theo was up, running haphazardly across the cabin, wound be damned. With a harsh wrench, the door flew open, illuminating a riot of bedraggled, blonde curls. He caught Luna up in his arms with a strangled sob and crushed her to him. Hermione felt her heart crack infinitesimally. The radiant joy in Luna’s laugh shot through her like an arrow, lancing her heart and making her long for something she’d never had before.

 

“Theo, you’re— gods, you’re  _ bleeding. What happened?”  _ Luna’s hands skittered over the wound on Theo’s side, and when she pulled them away, sticky droplets of blood littered her fingertips. 

 

And like the excitement had drained him of the rest of his energy, Theo wilted forward into Luna, and Hermione and Draco shot across the room, her arm jostling Draco’s as they slipped them under their friend’s shoulders.

 

“Shite.” Theo’s voice was pained, his skin a sickly shade of puce. Together, she and Draco half carried, half dragged him across the room and laid him carefully on the cot. When they set him down gently, his skin paled further. Dappled droplets of sweat sprang to life on his forehead, a grimace marring his features. Summoning a rag to wipe his forehead, Hermione leaned forward, only to have the rag wrenched out of her hand.

 

Luna was there, her fingers gently cradling Theo’s chin. A knot formed in Hermione’s throat as Luna wiped the moisture away lovingly. “You’ve gotten yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you?” The soft, conversational lilt to her voice couldn’t quite mask the fear that Luna’s tone held. “Heliopaths are quite bothersome,” and then, in an undertone, “I missed you.”

 

A soft hand closed over Hermione’s shoulder, and she looked up into Draco’s eyes, the grey in them impossibly soft pools of cashmere as he watched his friend embrace Luna again.

 

He swallowed hard, the column of his throat working up and down as she watched. “Let’s give them a little privacy, yeah?”

 

They exited the cabin, both standing on the porch and staring out into the woods. Silence settled like a lead weight between them, and Hermione didn’t know what to say. “Your mother—“ 

 

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. The unkempt ends stood up, and Hermione marveled at how the messy hair and stubbled jaw changed the wizard before her. Though his appearance was gruffer, the worried wrinkles crackling out from the corners of his eyes and the soft downturn of his lips as he stared out at the trees made him look gentler, and her heart opened infinitesimally to him. 

 

“She was supposed to be with Luna.” There was a sharp note of foreboding in his voice, an acknowledgement that he couldn’t bear to speak aloud, and Hermione found she couldn’t meet the sorrow-filled gaze that turned her way. Around them, the sun was setting, bathing the snow in a saffron hue and casting his features into sharp relief.

 

Turning, she rested her back against the railing with a sigh. “She’s out there.” Even as she spoke the words in uncertainty, the truth of them settled in her stomach. 

 

When he shifted to face her, the vestiges of sunlight caught in his eyelashes, the subtle warmth turning them translucent, and she was struck by the deja vu that gripped her.

 

_ They were in the Room of Requirement, a fire glowing in the hearth as Theo and Luna laughed together on the sofa she’d transfigured from one of the hundreds of pillows that Harry had used for the meeting with Dumbledore’s Army. _

 

_ “It’s coming,” he said, his voice low and rumbling. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him, his expression forlorn as he swept her hair over her shoulder and kissed her freckled skin gently. “We have to be careful.” _

 

_ She hummed, leaning back into the warmth of his embrace even as fear coursed through her. “I know.” _

 

_ They stared into the fireplace for a few moments, tangled around each other. “I’ll find you. No matter where you are or what happens… I’ll find you.” _

 

She blinked and the vision was gone. She was back on the porch, frozen to the spot, as Malfoy stared at her, brow furrowed. A dull pounding in her ears reminded her that she was at the cabin, that it wasn’t a dream, and she stumbled backward a step.

 

“Granger?” Uncertainty coloured his voice, and she reeled backward at the sudden familiarity, the knowledge that she’d heard him say her name like that before, had heard him say her name in hundreds of other ways, each one more intimate than the last, and she raced from the porch. “Granger, wait!”

 

Snow weighed her feet down, the harsh cold of it sinking into their soft leather, so like the dream he’d woken her from weeks before, but she couldn’t stop. The panic clawing up her throat told her that she needed to get away, now, as fast as she could, but her legs couldn’t handle the movement in the cold. With a sob, she collapsed in a heap, snow soaking through her trousers, stealing the warmth from her legs.

 

Behind her, Malfoy slowed to a stop, his breath gusting from his throat as he peered down at her, and she felt a wave of tears break loose at the raw concern in his gaze. “Granger, what—”

 

“I remember.” She could barely get the words out around the wells of emotion that threatened to bowl her over, but the sudden realization in Draco’s eyes was her undoing, and she curled in on herself. “I remember  _ us _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I'd forgotten about that cliffie; I’m sorry (please don’t kill me). Next week's chapter is extra long to make up for it.  
> Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and beta love to tofadeawayagain. Thank you both for your time and skill and words. I just love you both.


	31. The Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! I hope you've all have a lovely week and are looking forward to the coming holiday if you celebrate! Speaking of Christmas, I just wanted to leave a quick note that I will not be updating next week, as I'll be on a plane home to see my family. I hope you understand and won't be too upset! Likewise, I'll also be super busy on the 31st with my family, but I'll do my best to update. Check my Tumblr for sure; I'm sorry for the inability to give a clear answer now, but I hope an extra long chapter makes up for it.

**Chapter 31 -** _**The Lovers** _

Hermione's mind fractured. Jagged memories were a kaleidoscope within her; nothing made sense, so she curled into herself with a muffled cry, dimly aware of the snow biting painfully into her skin, soaking into her denim trousers.

Memory was a fickle thing. Her mother had told her as much when she was young; it was never quite truthful, telling telling mostly truths, interpretations of the truth... a simulacrum, and the slant of it was often wrong.

As her bones creaked while she curled into a ball on the ground, two strands of memories spread out behind her closed eyes.

The before and the after.

**Before. 25th August 1994**

Acrid smoke burned in Hermione's lungs as she ran, tree branches whipping painfully across her face. A stitch burned in her side, turning her run into a graceless canter. Witches and wizards far older than her raced past, panicked screams echoing from the camp behind her.

A singular thought, replaying endlessly, a mantra:  _find Harry and Ron._ Regardless of how many people ran into her, how badly her lungs ached, she couldn't leave this forest without knowing they were okay.

But when she chanced a glance over her shoulder, the trees silhouetted by the flickering of flames, her foot caught in a gnarled root, and she shot forward, arms flying out to catch herself.

The feeling of skin peeling back from her palms was not foreign to her, gritty dirt burying itself in the torn skin. Unfamiliar, though, was the panic that those few seconds wrought, the utter veracity that those precious moments would be what revealed her to the Death Eaters marching through the camp with Muggles suspended above them.

Hermione rolled over, tentatively testing whether she could support weight on her mangled hands, and when they didn't buckle, she stood. Sharp breaths gusted out of her, laboured and awkward, and the voices in the trees around her seems amplified in her fear.

Each step was riskier than the last, dried leaves and twigs snapping in her wake even as she tried to avoid them. Another wizard rushed past, his wand already slashing through a Disillusionment spell, and she held her breath as he disappeared into thin air, only haphazard crashing noises marking his departure.

Ahead of her, a flash of dark hair darted through a clearing, and her heart leapt into her throat as she followed it.

The ten metres to the clearing felt like a league; when Hermione finally fought her way through a smattering of barbed bushes, the dark-haired individual was gone. Instead, she was met by two familiar faces that made her pause.

Draco Malfoy, covered in dirt and snot, leaned his head against a tree and wept, his face turned up to the night sky, no doubt unaware of her presence if he continued to cry in such earnest. The other—Theodore Nott, she remembered from Potions—spoke rapidly to him in a low voice, his fist clenched in Malfoy's disheveled robes, the ones he'd so proudly paraded in mere hours earlier.

Part of her told her to turn around, disappear back through the trees. Another part of her told her to weaponise his weakness, turn it against him like he'd do to her if the roles were reversed. But the loudest part of her, much smaller and more determined than the other two, decided for her, and she strode across the clearing, her voice determined. "Are you okay?"

Any other day, it would have been comical, the way they froze and slowly pivoted their gazes toward her, but the desperation roiling off of them settled low in her belly. It was a feeling akin to her own, and she couldn't help the camaraderie she felt with them in that moment.

Malfoy's voice was devoid of his usual pompous grandeur when he spoke. "No, we're not bloody okay, Granger." He rolled his head forward, refusing to meet her gaze as though he hadn't intended to let the admission slip. "Get out of here. They're looking for your lot."

The confirmation sent a chill down her spine, but Hermione didn't allow it to take hold. "I gathered when they started floating Muggles through the middle of the camp." She paused. "I'd have thought—"

Theodore's hard gaze landed on her, mossy eyes calculating in the half light. "That we'd be out there, too?" The accusation fell heavily on her shoulders, a weight a fourth year shouldn't have to bear. "Our fathers are. But—" He turned away from her, his gaze falling to the handful of Malfoy's cloak he held. An anchor, though whether it was for himself or Malfoy she couldn't tell. "But not us." He swallowed, the barely discernible lump of his Adam's apple bobbing. "Not anymore."

"Theo—" Malfoy's protest cut short when an explosion shook the ground, trees groaning around them as a raucous cheer rose up among screams. "Oh gods, what have we done?"

The desperation in both their expressions tore at Hermione's heart, and she strode forward, stopping just shy of Malfoy's coiled legs. A deep breath, coiling courage around her heart like a shield, and she extended her hand.

A peace offering.

_Hope._

Whatever it was, she laid it bare between herself and the two Slytherins. "I can help you."

Draco eyed her outstretched hand with derision. "No one can help us, Granger; we're destined to be Death Eaters."

Theo flinched but turned to her. "We don't trust Dumbledore, so if that's your solution—"

Shaking her head rapidly, Hermione stepped closer, hand still outstretched. "McGonagall. You can trust her; she'll get you everything you need."

Slowly, Malfoy turned his head to look at her, cautious hope blooming in his eyes. "My mother said the same, but she wouldn't let us in alone—wouldn't trust us." Suspicion coloured his expression. "Why?"

Though she wracked her brain, Hermione couldn't think of a logical explanation, couldn't put words to the feeling in her soul that told her this is what she needed to do. "I don't know, but I know I'm supposed to help you. It's…" her hand wilted fractionally. "I just know."

A beat of silence passed between them, a thousand words passing silently between the two boys before Nott stepped forward, sliding his hand into hers. "It's a deal, Granger."

Malfoy was more reluctant, eyeing her critically as she loosened her hand from Nott's hold and canted her head at him. His eyes traced the tattered bits of skin on her palm, the specks of blood in it visible even in the low light. For a moment, she thought he might turn away, abandon his fear of the unknown for the ugly reality he'd found himself mired in by birthright. But then he turned to her, unwitting relief in his eyes. "Mother always told me salvation was found in the least likely of places." His hand slid into hers, slick with sweat and tears he'd wiped away.

They crept back through the camp, ducking into the smouldering husks of tents. Though she tried to ignore it, Hermione couldn't help the inkling of distrust that ran through her at having the boys at her back. They'd never been people she'd consider trusting, and protecting them seemed so outside the realm of reality that she second-guessed every move she made.

But when the sounds of the Death Eaters' revel drew further away and silence descended on them, Theo shouldered past her, Malfoy in his wake, and she watched them for several moments before taking off after them.

As they drew nearer the center of the camp, the tents grew more ostentatious. A line seemed to have been drawn in the ground that designated the Pure-bloods from the other campers. Here, the tents were made up of silk and charmeuse, charmed to repel water and filth. They shined in the dim moonlight, and Hermione felt her jaw fall open at the splendor of it all.

How utterly pretentious to display wealth so flamboyantly at a sporting event.

It shouldn't have surprised her at all, then, when Malfoy and Nott edged closer to a deep emerald tent emblazoned with the Malfoy family coat of arms in a shimmering silver threads. Constellations shot through the material in an ever-evolving skyscape.

She nearly choked on a disbelieving laugh when a pure-white peacock strutted around the corner and disappeared into the tent. But the gravity of the situation settled in her lungs when a fresh round of screaming echoed eerily over the husks of burnt out tents.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It was uncanny, standing before this grandiose tent while someone, somewhere, was being tormented by her companions' fathers. Guilt edged in her for abandoning Harry and Ron in favor of offering Theo and Draco her help, but when a flicker of fear and shame washed over both Malfoy and Nott's faces, Hermione nodded, bolstering herself. "Should we—" she tilted her head toward the tent, and with a short nod, Malfoy led her forward.

The inside of the tent was, if possible, more grandiose than the exterior. Rich gold and black fabric hung in swaths from the ceiling, partitioning the tent into separate rooms. Emerald thread wound through the fabric, the outlines of constellations twining amongst each other. It smelled of jasmine and sage, a low fire burning beneath a cauldron, and Hermione's breath caught when she saw a woman kneeling before it, her back to them.

Narcissa Malfoy.

The woman's hair was piled atop her head, a delicate elegance to the way her wand held it in place. The long column of her neck highlighted the delicate lines of her shoulders, their tension visible even as the woman spoke lowly over the cauldron. Though she couldn't make out the words, Hermione could tell that the woman's mind was far away from the tent.

Malfoy approached slowly, and when he laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, the woman gasped gasped, whirling around and staring sightlessly around her in bewilderment.

Milky white eyes darted around the room, chilling Hermione to the bone

Reeling backward, Hermione's heart thundered in her chest. Instinct told her to run, a cold finger of fear running down the middle of her back. She didn't make it far, her back colliding into a solid person. She froze. Slowly, a hand wrapped around her wrist, a low voice accompanying it in her ear. "It's okay. Narcissa— she's a Seer."

While Nott spoke, the colour returned to Narcissa's gaze. Slowly, icey blue seeped into her irises, the pupil returning along with it. Hermione was scarcely able to breath, Narcissa shook herself, gaze fixating on her son. "Draco, dear, is everything al—"

But Draco interrupted her, "Mother, I can't." His voice broke, panic warring across his face at uttering the unthinkable, betraying his family. "I can't— I won't follow Father." Even from the distance, Hermione could see the way Malfoy's face crumpled at the confession, throat working up and down before he spoke again. "Granger…" He paused, gaze drifting to where she stood. " _Hermione,_  she said she can help me. That  _McGonagall_  will help me."

At the mention of her name, Narcissa froze, her eyes snapping up, locking on to Hermione's. The icy blue was insistent and hard, piercing her straight to her core. Every flick of her gaze was analysing her, and Hermione felt fear settle in her stomach, fear that Narcissa would summon her husband and send Hermione to the same fate the Muggles outside had met. Fear that she'd hex her on the spot, anticipating the bright decisive green of the Avada.

But none of that happened.

Instead, the woman's eyes glinted just  _so_ , and she stood, robes sweeping around her, cauldron abandoned. Tendrils of hair fell loose and framed her high cheekbones and delicate features. When she stopped before Hermione, she seemed to study her for several quiet moments, sucking a sharp breath before speaking. "Why?"

So like her son. Or maybe it was Malfoy who was like his mother, far more than Hermione had ever given consideration as she studied her in kind, searching for any misgivings. But other than a slight tightening around her eyes, Narcissa schooled her features waiting while Hermione searched for words.

"Because no one should be forced to bear the weight of mistakes they're willing to take responsibility for. Especially not when they're forced into it by someone they love."

The words rang with the truth of what she'd begun to suspect of the way Dumbledore treated Harry, but Hermione held her ground, refusing to show the emotion that rioted in her core, that turned her into a ball of nerves.

Slowly Narcissa nodded, a slight upturn to her lips and a knowing glint in her eyes.

The memory faded, the next already bleeding through.

**1st September 1994**

Hermione knocked tentatively on Professor McGonagall's office door, Nott and Malfoy shifting from foot to foot behind her. When no one answered after a moment, Theo cleared his throat. "Maybe we ought to try another time. Anyone could—"

Before he could finish, the door creaked open, McGonagall's imposing frame filling the doorway. Hermione felt the boys flinch under McGonagall's harsh glare, but she stepped forward, gesturing behind her. "Professor, we need your help."

If it was possible, Hermione was sure Professor McGonagall's brows would have shot off her face with voracity with which they flew up, but she quickly schooled her expression, fixing them with an imperious glare, and stepped aside to allow them into her office.

When they settled, each of them in a chair before her desk, McGonagall spoke lowly, trepidation in every line of her aged face.. "Miss Granger, I do hope you know what you're doing."

Shame seared over her, that the other woman would be so clearly suspicious of her motivations; the truth of it was that she  _didn't_ know what she was doing, but something told her that she needed to extend the two boys an opportunity to change. Divination was rubbish—she'd never claim otherwise—but she'd never ignored her gut instincts. And right now they were screaming at her to give this—give  _them_ —a chance to prove they weren't what everyone had labeled them as.

So she cleared her throat, curling her hands around the chair lest her favourite professor see them shake. "Professor McGonagall, Malfoy and Nott are being groomed to become Death Eaters." Colour drained from the woman's face, and Hermione tried not to balk when McGonagall's throat bobbed in a thick swallow. "I've offered to help them. They want out."

Silence, filled with tension so thick it felt as though it crowded in her lungs. But McGonagall folded her hands in her lap delicately, her lips flattening into a thin line before she spoke. "I've suspected, but I had hoped that this was stamped out years ago." Her gaze rested on the two Slytherins, and when she spoke again, her voice was stern. "I trust Miss Granger. I do not, however, trust either of you."

Both boys coloured, Malfoy hanging his head, defeat heavy on his shoulders already.

"But—" Cautious hope lit in Theo's eyes, and he leaned forward, Hermione's own breath held while she waited for McGonagall to continue. "Should you require somewhere to earn that trust, I shall make the Transfiguration classroom available directly following dinner."

For the first time, Malfoy's mask cracked, and she saw the same hope that had buoyed Theo in the depths of his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but McGonagall cut him off. "To avoid rousing suspicion, you will have to do as they ask, Mister Malfoy; deviating from the path set before you will only result in complicate matters."

Theo leaned forward, a deep vee marring his smooth brow. "Professor, I don't understand. Are you  _asking_  us to stay with them?"

McGonagall sighed, eyeing the boys. "If either of you were to publicly announce your breaking from the Death Eaters, you risk being persecuted by them. You risk death. You put yourselves and Miss Granger in danger." Laying her hands flat on the table, she heaved a deep sigh. "I've spoken with your mother, Mister Malfoy. She understands; she advocates for you, and I wish I could intervene, but some things must be allowed to happen."

Her heart pounded in her ears as she stared at McGonagall. If she didn't know better… Narcissa had seen something of the future.

"Professor?" Malfoy swallowed audibly, and Hermione felt his fear as her own.

"I trust actions, Mister Malfoy, not words. See to it that you prove yourself, and I'll do everything in my power to help you." She stood, offering a slight nod to Hermione, and entered her private chambers, the  _snick_  of the door shutting punctuating her departure.

Finally, Theo broke the silence. "So when do we start?"

**25 June 1995**

When Cedric died, they knew. All illusions of safety within Hogwarts had been ripped from them, and Hermione couldn't go a day without wondering who would be next, where they would surface, and what part of the world she loved would be ripped away.

They trained harder, long into the night, during the few days before the term ended and while the school still hung heavy by his death.

When Harry and Ron asked about the circles beneath her eyes, she told them she'd started studying longer.

So lost in the horror of Cedric's death, neither of them questioned her.

When she said goodbye to Theo and Draco in McGonagall's classroom, she had to force herself to walk away, a tiny coil of fear in her stomach at what might happen while they were separated.

**29th October 1995**

" _Bombarda Maxima!_ " A jolt of white wandfire careened through the air, colliding with and exploding a stack of cushions Hermione had arranged at the far side of the room. Theo rolled to a stop, his motion fluid as he threw up a  _Protego_ , the shield shimmering in the dim room.

A smile of approval curved her lips. "Excellent, Theo!" A wave of her wand had the pillows mending themselves as she crossed the room and offered him her hand. "You've been practicing?"

Crooked grin pulling up his cheek, Theo chuckled as she helped him to his feet. "Not much else to do when you're avoiding becoming a henchman for a  _literal_ madman."

The gravity of the statement was not lost on her, but Hermione smiled nonetheless, squeezing his forearm in silent congratulations. "It shows; keep it up and you'll have basic combat mastered in no time."

Behind her, a light cough drew her attention. "Granger? Are you going to watch or flirt with Theo all day?" Malfoy's voice was pinched, a jealous tint to it that Theo had clued her in to when she stayed later to help him with his protective charms.

Rather than answer, she simply nodded at Malfoy. The other boy flew into a series of jinxes and hexes, an impressive array of defensive magic binding it together seamlessly before him with his non-dominant hand.

Watching Malfoy weave spellwork was enthralling, and she found she could never look away from him when he began. He threw his whole body into the magic, a fluid, dancelike connectivity in his motions that bridged gaps she wasn't aware were there until he filled them.

Malfoy captivated her, and she found herself hard pressed to listen to the voice in her head that told her she needed to look away. Hermione felt colour rise to her cheeks,

She felt rather than saw Theo sidle up behind her, his own appreciation evident in the silence with which he watched his friend. But his words washed over her, quiet and sure. "It's mutual, you know."

Her breath froze in her throat. Surely he couldn't mean… but when she looked over her shoulder at him, he simply nodded, watching Malfoy. "Why do you think he watches you so closely? That he gets jealous when I talk to you even when he knows I have Luna?" A beat passed between them, and then... "Talk to him about it."

Before she could respond, Theo was gone, crossing the room to settle down next to Luna. She briefly watched the way they seemed to melt into one another, taking solace from each other's warmth and steady presence. It wasn't a pairing that she'd expected, and frankly she'd been terrified of their reaction upon Luna interrupting their training when she'd forgotten her knapsack, but it had been easy. Luna had settled into the small group seamlessly, and Hermione found she was grateful for the other girl's presence.

It didn't hurt that they found alibis in each other and soothed Harry's suspicion.

Ron, though… Ron was more suspicious than ever. It was no secret that Hermione had harbored feelings for him once upon a time, but those feelings had… faded? Even as it seemed Ron was finally cluing in to the fact that she  _was_  a human female, and that he was marginally interested in her. His hand lingered on her arm, and she caught his gaze following her through the common room, uncharacteristically clingy any time they were around. But Hermione found it suffocating, especially when she'd long since found her eyes on someone else.

The graceful arc of Malfoy's wand through the air drew her attention, the taut line of his shoulders and the quiet determination evident in his gaze breathtaking.

No, she'd long since abandoned any residual feelings for Ron.

When Malfoy rolled to a stop, chest heaving, he looked up at her, hopeful excitement shining in his eyes.

She was crossing the floor before she could think twice, her footfalls quiet on the padded floor. When she extended her hand to him, it was so reminiscent of their early truce that she found herself cast back into that small, nervous girl in the woods again. But Malfoy's hand clasped hers, and he righted himself.

"So?" Malfoy stared down at her, his expression unreadable as she swallowed.

Behind her, she could hear Luna and Theo approaching, low laughter rumbling between them at some private joke.

Nerves crowded into her throat. Something in her knew that this was a turning point, and part of her warred with whether or not this was wise, offering something so fragile in the midst of the war. But she studied him, the strong line of his jaw that he'd grown into over the last year, the comfortable familiarity that she felt whenever in his presence. "Stay after today?"

An impossibly slow smile lifted the corner of his lips, sending a flurry of butterflies through her. "Anything for you, Granger." Without breaking eye contact, he spoke over her shoulder. "Theo?"

"Yeah, mate?"

His hand was on her wrist, and she was sure her heart was going to beat out of her chest. The harsh beat of it tattooed against her ribcage. "Get out. I've been meaning to do something with Granger."

She couldn't breathe for the anticipation writhing in her stomach as their footsteps receded, Luna's quiet, "I  _knew_ the Nargles were on to something" punctuating their retreat. When the door slipped shut behind them, Hermione studied him, sucking in a deep breath when he stepped into her space. Heart in her throat, she whispered, "What have you been meaning to do?"

The hand that was on her wrist slid up, tracing nonsensical patterns along her flesh. When it reached the curve of her neck, he paused, leaning back to peer into her eyes to search for permission. Of their own accord, her eyes fluttered shut, a soft sigh escaping her when his fingers delved into her hair.

And then his lips were on hers, warm and insistent. It was far gentler than she wanted, tentative, and she slid her hands over the dip of his hips, moulding herself to him. With a gentle nip, she drew his full lower lip into her mouth, smiling into the kiss when he groaned and wrenched himself backward. Twin spots of bright pink coloured the high arches of his cheekbones, his breathing laboured. "Granger, I—"

But she rocked up on her toes, pressing another kiss to his lips. Giddiness rushed through her at the simple action. "Stop, Malfoy." Swallowing, she pressed another kiss to his lips. "The war… bad things are coming. Let's just… enjoy this while we can, yeah?"

A sharp nod was her only answer before he swept her into his arms again.

**18 June 1996**

Malfoy carefully bound the wound that stretched up her side, arcing across the ladder of her ribs. His shoulders were tense and his eyes shuttered as he placed fresh gauze over the laceration. "It's healing slowly."

Letting out a hissing breath, Hermione nodded. "I don't know what it was—the curse. Harry had silenced him, and—"

Brows knit together, Malfoy interrupted her. "Whatever it was, it likely would have killed you had he been able to speak. It was a powerful curse."

Tears welled in her eyes as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her ribs. Behind them, Theo and Luna laughed quietly, and Hermione sat upright, settling herself into Draco's arms despite the pain that lanced through her.

"It's coming," Draco said, his voice low and rumbling. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him, his expression forlorn as he swept her hair over her shoulder and kissed her freckled skin gently. "We have to be careful."

She hummed, leaning back into the warmth of his embrace. Fear settled low in her stomach, stealing her ability to answer him with anything more than a simple acknowledgment. "I know."

They stared into the fireplace for a few moments, tangled around each other. When he spoke again, she could hear the emotion underscoring the words. "I'll find you. No matter where you are or what happens… I'll find you."

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she tried to force them away as she craned her neck to press a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Draco, I—" But the words stopped, and she buried her face in his neck. "When it happens… I'll have to go. With Harry, with Ron. But I want you to know—"

His arms tightened around her. "I know, Granger." He buried his face in her hair. "I know."

**3 August 1996**

Hermione was preparing dinner in her parents' kitchen when Draco Apparated into the backyard of their cottage.

The ceramic bowl in which she'd tossed the salad slipped from her fingers, shattering into pieces when it crashed against the tiled floor.

She was out of the room before the pieces could settle on the floor, her heart in her throat.

When she skidded to a halt before him, Draco was curled in on himself, a high-pitched whine emitting from his clenched mouth. Hands shaking, she rolled him gently, her stomach turning when the sharp scent of blood and urine washed over her.

On his left forearm, blood shone brightly, mangled bits of skin framing the ugly, roiling black ink etched into his skin.

A Dark Mark.

Her stomach revolted against her, and she swallowed back the bile that climbed up her throat. With slow, careful movements, she removed the cardigan she wore over the top of her simple t-shirt, slowly wiping away the blood as he rocked in her hold. When his whimpering quieted, she pressed a kiss to his temple, voicing the question she hadn't been able to manage. "Theo?"

A short nod gave answer enough: alive, and marked too.

**6 November 1996**

"There's a spy in the Order."

Hermione was wrapped up in one of Draco's jumpers near a fire grate in the Room of Requirement when Theo rushed in, his breath wheezing out of him. His announcement immediately put her on edge, her hackles rising as she turned a serious gaze on him. "What do you mean?"

He settled before her. "It's the only explanation; how they know where the Order will be. How they're getting information from inside Hogwarts. There has to be a spy somewhere."

She considered it for a moment, letting the truth of it wash over her. It would explain how the Death Eaters knew about the Room of Requirement and the Vanishing Cabinet. "So we'll tell McGonagall, have her help us—"

A door clicked open, and suddenly Ron's voice echoed through the room. "Hermione? Harry saw you disappear in here on the map; everything okay?"

Theo's eyes widened, and he scrambled around her, ducking for the chair before Ron came around the corner, his brows drawn low with something akin to suspicion. When he saw the fireplace and the book she'd been reading laid across the arm, his face relaxed.

She forced a smile at him, ignoring Theo's grip on her ankle. "I'm fine, Ron. Just needed a bit of privacy is all; it's hard to read with everything going on." She waved her hand in his direction, picking up her book for extra emphasis, but his eyes narrowed on her sweater.

The very telling emerald and silver sweater that was just a little too large on her frame.

"'Mione, why are you wearing a Slytherin jumper?" Suspicion coloured Ron's tone, twin pink stains adorning his cheeks as the tips of his ears flushed dark red.

But Hermione had always been quick on her toes, and she wrinkled a nose at him. "I know, but it was what the room offered when I asked; I was cold, so—" she shrugged, allowing him to fill in the blanks, even as she held her breath, hoping he'd buy the lie.

After a beat, he nodded, though the pinched expression didn't leave his face. "Right. Well, dinner is in thirty minutes; I'll see you at the table?"

Hermione nodded, already distracted as Theo's grip on her tightened on her ankle. "See you at dinner."

Ron slowly retreated, his hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders scrunched around his ears as he walked away. It wasn't until the door fell shut that she allowed herself to breathe out a heavy exhale.

But then Theo was rising, expression wary and pensieve. "Hermione, you don't think…" He trailed off.

"I don't think what?"

Waffling for a minute, Theo rocked up on his heels, staring off in the direction Ron had left in. "You don't think it could be Ron… do you?"

A disbelieving laugh tumbled from her lips. "Ron? A Death Eater?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Ron is a lot of things, but he wouldn't. He'd never betray his family like that." In the corner of her eye, Theo flinched, his hand moving to cover his forearm where the Dark Mark stood out angrily. She spun for him, catching his hand and forcing him to look at her. "Theo— I didn't mean it that way. I don't think of you like that. It's—"

He smiled ruefully, glancing back the way Ron had left, his brow still knit in worry. "It's complicated."

**20 January 1997**

"We need a contingency plan," she announced, watching as Malfoy and Theo stirred a cauldron of potion that rested on a table near the back of the Room of Requirement. Coiling silver smoke issued upward from it, the putrid smell crowding the small space, but she pushed forward. "When it happens… when the war comes here, I have to go with Harry. Wherever he goes."

Malfoy gazed at her over the top of the cauldron, hurt swirling within his eyes. "So what are you saying?"

Drawing her lip between her teeth, she considered her words. "Harry is hiding something. He's been going away with Dumbledore, spending long hours being advised in his office." She sighed, cutting her gaze away. "It's something to do with the war. But I don't know what, and he won't tell me."

Theo crossed to her. "Hermione, it's—"

"I know it's dangerous." She swallowed, trying to find the brave face she always wore, the distinct knowledge that it would be okay, but it was gone, leaving her bereft in the moment she needed it most. Steeling herself, she continued, voice clipped and clinical. "But you're in danger too. If they find out you've defected, they'll kill you." The certainty of her statement stole her breath, and she fought to stave off the terror it brought with it, her tone softening. "If it comes to war, do what you can to survive."

She shook her head. "You told me that you've been practising memory charms to help evade Voldemort." Both boys flinched at the name. "What can they do?"

His brow furrowed. "I haven't tested it; it's all theory—but the spell I've been working on… well, it can essentially replace your memories with false memories that you've been coached to learn. It's not perfect, but with some time…"

"With some time it could work?" she prompted, carefully avoiding Malfoy's earnest stare.

When Theo looked at her again, she could see the depths of sorrow in his gaze. "It could work."

Quiet resolution steeled her words, but she couldn't bear to look at Draco. Not when she could feel tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "Teach me."

**30 June 1997**

Somewhere within the castle, Death Eaters roamed.

Hermione raced through the halls, ducking as loud crashes and shrieking laughter sounded on the floor above her. Icy dread drove her forward, the source of the laughter unmistakable.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

She'd encountered the woman in the Department of Mysteries, her maniacal laughter forever etched into her memory, and Hermione found that no matter how fast she ran, she couldn't escape the terror that clawed its way up her throat.

By the time she made it to the Room of Requirement, a stitch had developed in her side, her breath ghosting in and out of her in desperate huffs. If they weren't there, if Theo and Draco hadn't made it to the room—

But she tumbled in after a second frantic pass, falling into waiting arms, and she loosed a relieved sob when Draco's familiar warmth washed over her.

He was alive. He was alive and running a hand over her curls, and gods, she couldn't leave him like this.

Rocketing upright, Hermione's gaze skittered over his features. They were drawn tight, grim determination in every line of his face. He'd grown so beautifully, settling into his pointed features that were now pinched and pained, seeing the tension he held himself with, the desperation that clung to him like a shroud… Hermione scarcely recognised him from the boy she'd grown to love.

But then Theo was there, Luna nowhere in sight, and she knew. All this time she'd been putting it off, the war looming outside their doorstep, growing ever closer.

And now it was here.

And she couldn't  _breathe._

Panic clawed up her throat, seized her by the heart and no matter what she did, she couldn't calm herself. She couldn't think past that certainty that lodged itself beneath her breastbone, that wrenched its way into her heart that she'd never see Draco again.

And when she finally forced herself to move to face him again, tears welling in his own eyes, sorrow and regret vying for dominance in his expression.

And though she raised her hand to cup his jaw, she couldn't make the words come out, couldn't stop her lip from trembling as an explosion rocked the castle somewhere outside the walls of their safe haven.

Safe no more.

She threw herself at him, desperate and broken, kissing every inch of him that she could reach. If this was to be their goodbye, she wanted him to remember it when she couldn't anymore.

Her heart thrumming in her ears, she crushed herself against him, aligning all the edges that fit so perfectly, that she'd taken for granted in their stolen time together, but then a wailing issued through the castle and another explosion shook the floors, part of the wall partitioning the room collapsing as she reeled away in horror.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Theo's wand rose to her temple, hot tears sliding down his face and dripping onto her arm. Outside, a loud wail rose as someone found the source of the crash, alarmed cries echoing upward in unison.

Whistling, low and ominous, carried through the Room of Requirement, something in it promising change, but Hermione found she couldn't quite embrace it the same way she had the last time she'd sensed it.

"Do it, Theo." She spoke through clenched teeth, only determination holding back the torrent of tears that threatened, the sob that tried to claw its way up and out of her throat.

He faltered, his wand dropping fractionally, but below them a door crashed opened. Bellatrix's manic laughter spiraled up the staircase.

They were running out of time.

And then Draco was there. Draco, with his beautiful, soulful grey eyes. With his strong, steady presence even when she could feel the sorrow pouring off him in waves. Draco with his love shining bright in the promise he swore her. "We'll find you; we'll make this right. Together."

"Together," she whispered. "I love you."

And then Theo's wand was pressing against her temple again, his words gusting over on a choked breath. " _Repone certus memorias_."

**After**.

The false memories streamed through her mind, each of them falling into place over the old. Juxtaposed with the original, she could see the false constructions, each added nuance painting Draco as a villain instead of the victim.

The World Cup.

His forced position in the Inquisitorial Squad.

Letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

The days he spent observing her torment in the cell.

All of it streamed through her mind, laying over the top of the true memories in a nearly seamless reimagination.

But now that she knew where to look, the shimmer to them, the way they didn't quite fit… Hermione could see where it all fell apart, and she knew.

What he had done, the moments of her pain and debasement, he'd been there alongside her. Whispering in her mind his apologies, his love, and how much he wished to do anything else; the way he shielded her as much as he could and beared the brunt of whatever magic he could siphon away from her.

It was all for her, and she broke again and again and  _again._

**Now**.

Mere moments seemed to have passed since she collapsed in the snow. Fresh flakes whirled through the air, settling on her cheeks, in her hair, but all she could fixate on was the warmth of the body that she was cradled against, the now-familiar scent of  _Malfoy_  coiling around her in a comforting blanket.

But all she could focus on, all she could  _feel_ , was the way her mind seemed to splinter within her. Magic shot outward, wrapping her and Malfoy in a whirlwind of colour and sound, and the only constant through it all was him.

Malfoy. His face. In her memories, before her, all of it blending together as she tried to force some semblance of sense into the visions assaulting her.

The last thing she heard before blacking out again was his whispered pleas for her to come back to him as he lowered his face into her curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merp, how on the nose was that title lol. HUGE shoutout to highlyintelligentblonde for helping me work out an incantation for Theo's spell; she's a life saver and absolutely incredible! As always, alpha love to LadyKenz347 and beta love to tofadeawayagain. Happy Christmas!


	32. Reversed Eight of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Thanks for understanding that I didn't update for a couple weeks; I spent so much time with my family that I didn't really have time to use my computer, so I'm glad I warned you ahead of time. Without further ado, on to the chapter (more notes at the end).

**Chapter 32 -** _**Reversed Eight of Swords** _

Swimming back to the surface among the myriad of memories was exhausting. No matter how hard she fought, it seemed as though Hermione was dragged back under the surface, drowning in memory after memory until she could no longer decipher reality.

But through it all, Draco was there, and Theo and Luna. The sound of their voices, familiar, far away touches, the pop and crackle of a fire in a grate… all of it anchored her, calmed the magic roiling within her, and she clawed her way back to the surface.

When she finally pried her eyes open, the unimpressive dilapidated beams of the cabin were shadowed with slanted sunlight, and she could hear the steady dripping of water as snow melted outside. Distantly, she wondered where everyone was, why the quiet of the cabin felt so oppressive around her, but when she pushed herself up to sitting, she saw Luna and Theo wrapped around each other in Theo's cot.

Malfoy was nowhere to be found.

She had no idea how long she'd been lost within the labyrinth of her mind; everything held the faint, hazy quality of a dream after a too-long sleep. What she  _was_  sure of was that her lips and throat were cracked, her nails torn to stubs. Glancing at the transfigured bedroll she'd been deposited on, she realised that the length of them were likely lost within the long scratches that had been gouged into the roll's surface.

But she  _remembered_. Night after night sneaking from Gryffindor tower to train with them, to learn Malfoy and Nott. To become friends with them, until it tumbled into more. And her heart ached for the lost time, for the things they had seen since they'd been forced apart.

More than anything, guilt weighed on her like a stone, that she'd forgotten someone so very important to her.

No matter the war, no matter this new magic that had settled in her that had become foundational to her very being, the depths of the feelings that assaulted her shouldn't have been so easy to mask. That she'd allowed, even asked, for Theo to charm it all away settled over her, a heavy weight.

And everything that had happened in the interim…

But the dull pounding that had roused her from her sleep pulsed again, and a low groan tore from her throat. The sound wasn't meant to be loud, but it gained momentum as she swung her legs over the bed, the ache spreading from the base of her neck down her spine in a sharp flash.

Even as she clamped her lips together to quiet the sound, movement from Theo's cot disturbed the quiet, and Luna's piercing blue gaze met hers through her mass of messy, blonde waves. "Hermione!"

In a spectacular display of limbs and awkward disentangling, Luna extricated herself from Theo's grasp. Finally, when her feet landed on the floor, Luna rushed to her, waving her hand and summoning water from where it sat on a table that hadn't been there before.

Though Hermione tried to brush off the help, Luna leveled a disappointed frown at her. "Hermione, let me help you." Her tone bordered on demanding, a side of Luna Hermione wasn't overly accustomed to, so she acquiesced with a sigh. Tipping the cup to her lips, Luna slowly dribbled a stream of water between Hermione's cracked lips. The first sip was like salve on a wound she'd been unaware of, greedy and desperate in her pulls from the ceramic cup. The cool liquid settled in her empty stomach, an unwelcome reminder of her close brush with mortality.

As she reached upward with shaking hands, intent on draining the liquid that remained, Luna leaned the cup away, wiping away a dribble of water as it rolled down Hermione's chin. "Not too much; you'll be sick." The whimsicality that she'd grown to associate Luna with was gone from the girl's voice. Instead, it was shaky with relief, her eyes wide as she assessed Hermione. "We thought—"

"We didn't know if you'd wake up."  _Theo_. He crossed the room shakily, his gait unsteady but vastly improved from the last time she'd seen him moving.

As he approached, fear clawed up her throat, the fluidity of his motions stoking her fears of how long she'd laid there. When she finally managed to work her voice around the lump in her throat, she whispered, "How long?"

Theo settled down beside her on the pile of blankets she'd been reclined upon, his hand rising as though he'd settle it on her knee, but she flinched away from him, regret and shame washing over her. "A week. Long enough for the sutures to heal well enough for me to be able to move more freely. Luna also found a small vial of Dittany in her supplies, which she used to heal some of the more stubborn spots." Hundreds of words settled between them in his pause, and when he finally spoke again, she closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain his words brought with them. "Hermione… you did what you thought was best. How were you to know that it was Ron behind everything?"

_Ron._ Oh gods. Flashes of their time on the run together, when she'd allowed him into her bed for solace on those cold, lonely nights, memories of his roving hands juxtaposed with the sharp hate he wielded against them now… he'd been behind so much of what had caused them to land here. And she'd allowed him to make her vulnerable.

The water she'd just drank rioted against her, stomach flipping with disgust, and she surged past Luna, past Theo, ignoring the pounding of her head as she reeled toward an empty corner and expelled it all. Luna settled quietly behind her, gathering her hair into her hands and weaving it into a long plait as she gasped around desperate heaves. Finally, when her throat worked around dry gags and sobs, she rocked back on her heels, willing the tears she'd jarred loose away.

"I should have known." She wasn't sure if the words were more of an accusation at her own naïveté and blindness or a plea for absolution, but there they hung, heavy and desperate between them.

But then Theo was there, his weather worn but kind face staring down at her as he offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet. "Hermione, it's okay. The spell… it was designed to make you repress everything. You weren't  _supposed_ to remember to keep you safe." His wry grin, the subtle preening as he straightened his shoulders and lifted the right one in a shrug, all of it was suddenly so painfully familiar that she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

It was… different than what she remembered, her memories now tempered by the war she'd seen, the falsities she'd grown to believe, but it felt right. The embrace felt like the memories she saw, though part of her wondered if it was just another trick in a long succession of acts meant to break her.

When she pulled away, though, and saw the relief and the slight sheen of moisture in Theo's eyes, she knew. He'd been there, from the beginning. The silent presence in her cell witnessing her torture in solidarity, the one to get her cleaned up, the one who stood up with her following Blaise's death… he'd been the friend that she remembered all along.

But that also meant…

Theo noticed the change in her disposition, his hands dropping from where they'd cupped her shoulders. Canting his head to the side, he nodded toward the propped door, the whistling wind coming in around the edges. "He's outside." His lips tightened into a thin line. "But Hermione… go easy on him. I meant what I said at the manor; he never wanted this life for you. He's been beating himself up the entire time."

Hermione nodded, steeling her spine as she stared at the floor. Contradicting images were flitting through her mind: Draco curled up with her by the fireplace, then rapidly flashing to him standing over her in the cell. "I understand." She turned to slide past him, thoughts clashing inside her head, when his hand settled on her elbow.

Slowly, she turned her gaze towards him, a half-smile that bordered on a grimace lilting his lips. "I don't think you do, Hermione." He released her, pointing her toward the door. "But I can't be the one to tell you. Go."

She slipped past him, her footfalls gaining confidence as she gathered her wits about her, shaking off the haze and fear that she'd felt upon waking up. Pausing before the door, she closed her eyes, sucking in a deep, steadying breath, before she pushed it open.

The sunlight was blinding, and Hermione stumbled to a halt, her hand flying up to shield her unprotected eyes. The copse of trees around them was no longer weighed down by heavy mounds of snow. Instead, they were slowing springing upright, their creaking bringing the barren area to life as snow slipped from its branches and water dripped to the forest floor.

Her heart caught in her throat at its beauty even as she squinted her eyes to see it. Spring was coming to England.

It shouldn't have settled a seed of hope in her, but it did, and the unexpected warmth it bore pushed her forward, seeking her third companion.

Draco was leaning against the deteriorated railing, staring out at the forest. Even with his back turned to her, she could imagine his face: brows pulled tight, lip drawn between his teeth as he worried it, eyes hard as he tried to puzzle through a thought. The porch groaned under her shifting weight, but either he was too focused to pay it any mind or he was ignoring her with a concerted effort.

It was a testament to the strength of Theo's magic that he'd been able to make her forget the torrent of emotions that raged within her upon seeing him again. It stole her breath away, seeing him from afar, even as she warred with confliction.

Sorrow, that they'd lost so much time together. That they'd both been dealt such a terrible hand, been forced to face horrors neither of them ever should have.

Anger, that he hadn't tried harder to stop her, that he'd kept it from her for so long despite her demands otherwise. Fury that he'd allowed so much terror to befall her without stepping in.

Relief, that they'd found each other. He'd never given up, not through any of it, and here he was. In one piece but just out of her reach.

But the anger was the easiest emotion to latch on to, and so she straightened her spine and steeled her shoulders, crossing the porch with heavy thuds.

"You knew." The accusation in the words was heavy on her tongue. It was unfair, she knew that, but it felt better to accuse than to sit mired in the knowledge of what she'd done.

Draco's eyes narrowed for a moment before he forcibly smoothed his face and turned to her. His curt reply stung, but she refused to let it show. "You did, too. And if you were paying attention, you didn't exactly give me a choice in the matter. You and Theo—" He threw his hand toward the doorway. "I wasn't given a bloody option in it."

It stung, the truth of it. It lodged beneath her breast bone and still she trudged forward, pushing herself into his space. "You knew, this whole time. You let me think you were a  _monster_. You and Theo… both of you just let me sit here and doubt you."

His breathing was harsh when he turned to face her. "You weren't  _ready_ , Granger. Theo told you the risks. You knew what would happen if you pushed too hard, if you tried to remember before you were ready." He gave a sharp laugh, the sound bordering on a sob. "You could have died. Merlin, you bloody nearly did! I had to pick you up out of the snow, had to watch you writhing in on yourself. We couldn't do anything as you scratched yourself bloody."

Her heart pounded in her ear as she marched forward, her finger coming up and jabbing him in the chest even as her finger shook from the depths of the emotion that assaulted her when his pain was so evident in his tone. " _You_  let them. You stood by and watched them break me down, tear me apart. You did  _nothing_."

Malfoy wilted, shame and guilt flashing over his features as his shoulders curled in on themselves. "I know. I know, Granger, and I hate myself every  _bloody_ day for it."

Fury roiled through her, hot and insistent, and she stepped closer, her voice a hiss. "You let me forget and you watched them  _torture_ me." A sob broke her voice and when she raised her finger to jab his chest again, the fight went out of her, her hand falling uselessly at her side. "You let it happen."

Twin spots of red rose on the tips of Malfoy's cheekbones, emotion swirling in his eyes, and Hermione realised with a start that it was the most open she'd seen him. No mask, no bravado or swagger or cunning planning… shame and regret flashed in his eyes. "I did what I could, Granger. It wasn't enough, but I helped you where I could. The torture… you were supposed to be awake. They  _wanted_ you awake, and I suppose in a sense you were, but I blocked what I could." Earnest sincerity shone in his gaze when he stepped forward, her hand flattening against his chest.

She remembered. All those times when it became unbearable, when the worst of it had just begun and she slipped away behind a black haze of unconsciousness, she recognised the familiarity in it. The dark circles that seemed to only grow worse as he watched, the way he wouldn't quite make eye contact or watch what they were doing to her.

And it dawned on her, the reason that everything had been so easy for her, the reason he'd always been able to slip so readily past her Occlumency shields, was that they'd practised.

In the Room of Requirement, they'd worked through Legilimency together, Draco teasing her for how terrible her shields were, that she wasn't a natural Occlumens. He'd slipped behind her walls so many times that she'd never thought to stop him when he wasn't making himself obvious, because he was as much a part of her as she was.

And she remembered, suddenly, words that hadn't been there when she'd drifted into the darkness, a familiarity so comforting that she'd begun to seek it out when she was alone, when she didn't think she could do it alone:  _I'm here, Granger._

Over and over and over again, the mantra her unconscious had clung to even when she was unaware. His voice. His presence. He hadn't been able to stop it lest he risk both of their death, so he'd done what he could.

He provided her a lifeline, provided her an out, and then trained her to use the horrors that had befallen her. All in an attempt to get her out.

Before her, Draco puffed his lips out, his eyes flicking between hers urgently as he tried to explain. "I didn't want to let you go, and I've beaten myself up for what happened every single day because of it. I listened to my mother when I should have listened to my gut, vision be damned, because I knew you'd put yourself on the line for that scar-headed twit. I wish I would have taken you away… No, instead I let you sacrifice yourself like some bleeding martyr, leaving everyone that lo—"

Both of them froze, but Hermione stepped forward, her hand closing around his soiled shirt as she raised on her tiptoes, shaking her head. "An explanation can wait, Draco."

She pressed her lips against his tentatively, the soft pressure nearly undoing her as a whirlwind of emotions, of  _memories,_ assaulted her. Stolen kisses in broom closets, the desperate last kiss he'd pressed to her lips before he disappeared from the Room of Requirement with tears in his eyes, the promises they'd whispered to each other ringing in her ears in the dark of a canopied bed where he curled around her clothed form.

All of it and more came rushing back, and she knew.  _This_ was real, the feelings that threatened to pull her under as his hands slid up her back, into the plaited hair that rested along her spine. As his lips broke from hers only to press against hers again, a puzzle piece filling empty space, she poured herself into the kiss.

It was right. The war still raged on around them, outside the boundaries of this forest. There was still a world that wanted Muggles and Muggle-borns dead, still Voldemort to deal with, but a small part of it quieted as Draco's arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.

Finally, after moments of losing themselves in each other, Hermione pulled back, breathing laboured, and she settled her hands on his chest as her heart twinged painfully within her. A shocked gasp drew her gaze upward, and slowly she turned her head, seeking out what Draco stared at in awe.

Around them, a warm, golden ring of light settled, its iridescence illuminating the shadows of the porch. Within the cabin, Theo's strangled shout sounded, and pounding footsteps preceded the door crashing open. Theo hobbled out, wand in hand, before Luna breezed past him, a brilliant smile on her lips.

"It's fine, Theo." Her voice even held her smile, musical and serene. "Hermione is happy, that's all."

It was true. For all the fear that roiled inside her, all the loose ends that they needed to discuss, the problems they had to work through and unspoken conversations… for the first time in months, Hermione felt as though a piece of her had been returned to her.

And in a way, it had.

Slowy, the magic faded, the barrier around them disappearing as she extracted herself from Draco's hold. A few steps backwards put a conscious space between them, and Hermione drew her lip between her teeth, eyeing Theo and Luna as awkward silence settled over them.

Finally, Theo broke it. "I take it you… talked?" Mischief lit his gaze as he glanced between them, a welcome respite to the seriousness of their situation. "Or didn't, judging by the way Malfoy refuses to look at me."

Despite it all, Hermione laughed, relief palpable as she doubled over, wrapping her arms around her stomach. The others joined in on the brief moment, but when she gasped, a sharp pain shooting through her head again, Theo was there, wrapping an arm under her shoulder. "Why don't we get you inside, yeah?"

Luna settled on her other side, and though Hermione wanted to insist that she was more than capable of walking inside, another shooting pain lanced through her head, accompanied by the flash of a memory, and her knees buckled. Distantly, she was aware of Malfoy rushing toward her, but she closed her eyes against the pain, forcing one foot in front of the other as Theo and Luna led her blindly toward the cot.

The short distance felt like an eternity, but Hermione breathed a relieved sigh commingled with pain as they lowered her to her cot. Immediately, her hands went to her temple, pressing against the soft divets to ease the pain. If anything, though, it only increased as another recovered memory assaulted her.

_Harry and Ron sat on the opposite side of a campfire. In his hand, Harry held a worn copy of the_ Tales of Beedle the Bard _. "It just doesn't make sense, Hermione. Why would Dumbledore have a copy of this on him when he died? Unless…"_

_But Ron shook his head, standing up and pacing around the tent. "Harry, you can't keep chasing after this idea. The Elder Wand doesn't exist."_

" _But I_ have  _the cloak, Ron. If one of them exists, don't you think the rest could be—"_

_But Ron whirled around, anger in every line of his features as he stalked forward, a chain around his neck as his face reddened. "Harry, I've got family out there; I have people counting on me, and we're just sitting here in the forest while you sit around with starry eyes about some stupid kids' tale."_

_Hermione stood, anxious energy roiling in her stomach as her eyes fell on the chain around his neck. "Ron, take it off. Take off the horcrux."_

_He rounded on her, eyes wide and angry. Before she was aware of what had happened, he stepped into her space, staring down at her scornfully. "And you, panting after Harry every time I'm gone. I'm not stupid, no matter what either of you think." Empty laughter fell between them, and he spun toward the door, marching with purposeful steps. "Well, I'll solve the problem for you."_

_And then he was out the door, leaves crunching even as she and Harry scrambled after him, his name ringing frantically through the forest._

_Then he was gone with a loud_ pop _, leaving both Harry and Hermione staring after him in shock._

_Ron and the horcrux were gone._

Someone was shaking her shoulders, and her eyes fluttered open slowly, realisation dawning over her. Without answering anyone, she shot up from her seat, hurtling toward the small, beaded bag she'd discarded near the hearth the night before. Desperately plunging her arm inside, she felt through the depths for the book she sought, but after a few frantic movements, she withdrew her hand with a muttered curse, summoning the book.

The  _horcruxes_. How could she have been so  _stupid_?

From the depths of the bag, she heard materials topple over one another, wincing slightly at the sound, but she breathed a sigh of relief when it settled in her hand, opening to the pages that had been read time and time again.

_The Tale of the Three Brothers_.

She turned, willing her breathing to regulate, to calm the racing of her heart as she approached the three other occupants of the cabin, each staring at her in bewilderment. Finally, she stopped, lowering herself to her knees and placing the open book between them, the text facing away from her.

Theo glanced between the book and Hermione, brow furrowing and lips pulling into a tight frown. "The Deathly Hallows? Hermione, this is a children's story, a faerie tale. No one believes these any more than the next person. What do you—"

But understanding flit over Draco's face, and he leaned forward, turning the pages until an illustration of the Elder Wand adorned the pages.

Her voice shook when she spoke, but she was sure. This was it… all along, the answer had been in her pack, and she'd overlooked it. With slow, methodical movements, she slid the wand free of the holster she'd fashioned in her trousers, settling it besides its likeness on the page. "I know how to beat him. The Dark Lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're needing a little bit of a pick-me-up from all the angst and darkness, you should check out my new fic, _Scripted_! It's based on _The Ugly Truth_ , and it's been really fun to write. It's humour and romance, and a new chapter goes up every Friday (and the posting schedule will increase once I finish the last three chapters over the next two weeks).
> 
> Beyond that, I just wanted to leave a quick note of thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this fic. It's been a long journey that will be coming to a close in the next couple months, and I'm really grateful for each and every one of you for reading my words. This fic is by far my most read, and I'm kind of shocked so many people are reading it. So thanks for making this all so wonderful.
> 
> As always, thank you to LadyKenz347 for her killer alpha skills and tofadeawayagain for being a wonderful beta. I am forever indebted to you both for your help.


	33. Two of Pentacles

**Chapter 33 - _Two of Pentacles_**

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room with the way Theo was staring gobsmacked at the Elder Wand resting on the book.

Finally, Luna spoke. “Theo, you ought to know that something can exist even though you can’t conceptualise it.” She smiled serenely up at Hermione. “Like the Nargles.”

Hermione’s heart clenched at her friend’s sunny optimism in the face of so much darkness. “Like the Nargles,” she echoed, reaching across the book to clasp her friend’s hand tightly. Too short, though, was the reprieve before she turned to Draco and Theo. “Harry had a theory that, united, the Deathly Hallows could defeat the Dark Lord.”

Theo frowned, his hand hovering over the wand before he flicked his gaze to her, seeking permission. At her nod, he picked up the wooden length, weighing it on the tips of his fingers.

“It feels like you,” he mused, allowing the wand to roll down his fingers until it settled in the length of his hand. He cracked a wry grin at her. “Stubborn, like it’s going to tell me I’m wrong about something any minute now.”

The levity brought an answering smile to her face, and she lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It does feel like mine. Once I summoned it from Ron…”

Draco cleared his throat, finishing for her. “You became its master.”

The title settled heavily on her shoulders, and Hermione rolled them to try to shed the proverbial weight. “The old wand doesn’t answer to me anymore.” A thought dawned on her, eyes rounding as she settled on Luna’s folded hands, and Hermione held her hand out, crooking her fingers when Theo quirked his brows at her. Once the wand settled back into her hands, a surge of warm magic flickering back into it, she waved it in an arc, muttering “Accio aspen wand.”

Tattered bed covers rustled, the wand fighting to free itself from beneath the pillows she stowed it under. Finally, it cleared its confines, zipping across the room and landing smoothly in her outstretched hand.

When she turned to the group, both boys looked on as she extended it to Luna. “It seems like you’ve more use for this than I do.”

A brilliant smile lit Luna’s face, and she accepted the proffered instrument. Almost immediately, a shower of golden sparks emitted from the end; Luna’s grin split impossibly larger. “I think it likes me.”

It felt good to laugh again, Hermione realised as she allowed her a chuckle to ring between them. She felt normal, or as normal as she could given the circumstances, and though she was distinctly aware of the small area of Malfoy’s clothed knee pressing against her own. If she closed her eyes, the warm fire at her back, the quiet laughter, and the fleeting feeling of normality reminded her of Hogwarts.

Before everything had turned on its head. Before war came to their doorstep. Before who she was had been changed irrevocably.

But then she opened her eyes, reorienting herself in her present. It would do no good to dwell in the past, so she leaned forward, settling her chin in her palm as she eyed the passage printed before her. “I never believed in them either; it was always a means to get Harry to move, to give him a sense of direction. I always told him that maybe we’d stumble across it eventually, but--” She shrugged, gnawing on her lip. “It makes sense. He had the cloak. The wand is here…”

“That leaves the resurrection stone.” Theo seemed to be talking to himself, his eyes distant. “But that could be anywhere. If it’s just a stone--”

Luna interrupted him. “But what if it’s not?” When everyone turned to look at her, she blushed lightly but continued. “If He Who Must Not Be Named was after the wand, it stands to reason that he was in pursuit of the other Hallows. With them all, he would be the Master of Death.”

Hermione nodded along with her, working through the puzzle pieces that they had. “If he had them, he’d be unstoppable. And he nearly is anyway, given the horcruxes.”

Both Draco and Theo froze, their faces draining of colour. “Granger, back up.” Theo’s voice was low and serious, his jovial mood erased. “What do you mean horcruxes? Plural?”

She swallowed, unable to meet their gaze. “When I left Hogwarts, Harry had a mission, one that Dumbledore had given him before his death. He didn’t tell me much; in fact, it was just days before the attack at the Manor that we found it in the Ministry. We barely made it out.”

Draco rubbed a hand down his face, colour slowly returning to the tips of his ears as he eyed her. “Start at the beginning, Granger. And don’t leave anything out if you can help it.”

So she did. It all felt so distant at first, muddied by the time she’d spent in the cell, the memories and falsities she had to distinguish from the truth. But these memories were largely unaffected. Those early moments in Grimmauld, when she was surrounded by her best friends and thought they would fight the war out together, they were hers.

She walked them through the first days on the run, the near misses in the tent, and the way Ron restlessly pushed for them to do anything. Harry was tightlipped, too traumatised from Dumbledore’s death to function, until he finally sat both her and Ron down to explain their task. And then they’d met with the other escaped Hogwarts students, their band of exiles trekking brokenly across the wizarding world until they’d arrived at Malfoy Manor and it had all blown to bits.

Hermione tried to ignore the way Draco flinched at the passing mention of the manor, but he steeled himself and broke into her rambling monologue, whether to quell her quickly dwindling voice or stop the onslaught of his own guilt, she wasn’t sure. “How many?”

She swallowed, closing her eyes. “Harry worked out that there were at least six, each of them with some personal significance to the Dark Lord.” Theo swore, and she opened her eyes to watch her fingers tick them off. “Tom Riddle’s diary, which was destroyed in second year.” Draco paled, the reminder of slipping it into Ginny’s cauldron clear on his face, her own memories recalling when he’d confessed his transgression to her in the Room of Requirement. “Ron has Salazar Slytherin’s locket.”

A strangled snort from Theo made her pause. “He used Slytherin’s locket?” At her nod, he whistled low under his breath. “Always was a ballsy git.” His lips thinned into a line. “And the others?”

She barrelled on. “Marvalo Gaunt’s ring—Dumbledore destroyed it before he disclosed the information about the horcruxes to Harry.” A deep breath prefaced the next. “The rest are guesses; we assumed Ravenclaw’s diadem and Hufflepuff’s cup, in keeping with the founders.”

Theo frowned. “Well then the final one would most logically be something of Gryffindor’s.”

But Hermione was already shaking her head. “The only remaining possession of Gryffindor’s was the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, which Dumbledore kept in his office and already scanned for horcruxes. It was never made into one.”

Draco and Theo exchanged a glance, unspoken words passing between them until Theo said, “Can it be a living object?”

Drawing her lip between her teeth, she sucked in a breath, choosing her words carefully. “There’s no precedent for it, but--” She closed her eyes, tears welling up in them as she struggled to get the words out. “But I had a theory before Harry died… well, that he’d been made into one by accident. It would explain why he had such a connection to the Dark Lord. Why he could see so clearly into what he was doing, could feel his thoughts.” A shudder worked its way through her as she remembered Harry’s sightless gaze. “But he died. When I cursed him, he…” She paused, trying to force the words out. “He was just gone.”

Shame and guilt chased each other through her, both of them threatening to swallow her whole, and when Malfoy’s hand settled on her knee, at once familiar and foreign, she flinched. When he withdrew, another sharp flash of guilt settled through her, but she pushed it away to deal with later. But the warmth of his knee pressing into hers never left her, and he whispered, “It’s okay, Granger.”

The quiet declaration bolstered her, and she continued. “I’d venture a guess that if anyone could find a way to imbue a Horcrux into a living being, it’d be the Dark Lord.” She narrowed her gaze at them. “But what would he--”

“The snake,” both boys answered simultaneously, a grim look shared between them.

And suddenly Hermione remembered Nagini, the snake’s long, coiling body that she’d seen only once prior, from a distance in the manor whilst trapped there. A shudder wracked through her, but she nodded, remembering the way Voldemort had kept the snake within his sight at all times. “It’s a very strong possibility; I hadn’t considered it, but it makes sense.”

Silence settled between them, Luna idly twirling the gifted wand between her fingers as the logs cracked in the fireplace. The silence was fraught with hundreds of questions she couldn’t bring herself to voice, but just as she settled on perhaps the most important one--inquiring after Harry, hope a wistful optimism in her--Theo rolled his shoulders.

“Granger, if you’ve known about these for so long, why wait? Why are you just telling us now?” Theo’s voice held no accusation, but guilt still welled in her.

With a sigh, she answered, “I’d forgotten. I was so focused on surviving that I didn’t think about fighting a larger battle.” When she swallowed around a knot in her throat, she continued, “After Harry died--” Another harsh swallow, a rush of emotion assaulting her. “After Harry died, I didn’t think it mattered any more; I’d given up.” She glanced up at Draco, quickly lowering her gaze when she realised he was watching her closely. “And even if I had remembered… I don’t know that I’d have trusted you.”

Gruff and insistent, Draco’s voice cut through the quiet. His gaze landed somewhere in the vicinity of her feet, unable to look her in the eyes. “So how do we destroy them?”

Though Hermione opened her mouth to answer, Luna spoke up. “Horcruxes are quite hardy creations, and their housing is often protected by strong enchantments or warding. The only way to destroy a horcrux is to destroy its vessel beyond repair.”

All three of them stared at her, mouths agape, before Hermione finally managed, “Luna, how do you know that?”

The other girl smiled demurely, though Hermione saw the corner of her mouth twitch in satisfaction. “There were lots of books that found their way into the Room of Requirement, and I had a lot of time to read.”

With a disbelieving laugh, Hermione eyed her friend. “So this whole time, you’ve been in the Room of Requirement?”

Lifting her shoulders, Luna’s smile slipped, the change of expression revealing some of the horrors she must have seen. “Not entirely, no.” Her hand shot out, gripping Theo’s. “I’ve been… it’s been difficult, finding ways to obtain information. There were some things…” She swallowed, a pained pinch between her brows. “There are some things I’d rather not remember.”

The sweet whimsicality that usually coloured Luna’s tone was gone, and her normally rosy cheeks had drained to a ghostly pale. And Hermione remembered, the dark of the cell bleeding into the warmth of their makeshift shelter, Ron’s taunts, his reveling in what he’d done to Luna.

Words failed her, and instead of offering half-arsed apologies, she leaned across the space, drawing the other girl up into her arms in a tight hug, trying to will the broken pieces of her friend back into place. Luna clung to her, both of them seeming to seek forgiveness in the other’s embrace, and when they broke apart, Luna’s eyes glittered with tears. Clearing a knot from her throat with a rough swallow, Hermione whispered, “I’m so sorry, Luna. For Ron, for--”

Luna squeezed her hands with a sad smile. “It’s not your fault; war changes us. Ron… he always was hot tempered, and I think he got lost in trying to save his family that he forgot himself along the way.”

And there was the grace that Luna was so willing to extend to everyone, even when she had been wronged. It shocked Hermione how quick the girl was to forgive, a lesson Hermione had never been quick to learn. But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed Ron somewhere along the way, so she squeezed Luna’s hands. A silent promise to make it right.

Whatever right meant in the end.

Clearing his throat and blinking away his own anger at hearing his girlfriend discuss the horrors she’d seen so brashly, Theo asked, “So how do we destroy them?”

Hermione sighed, leaning her weight back on her palms. “We wanted to use the Sword of Gryffindor; it was imbued with basilisk venom when Harry killed Slytherin’s beast in second year, but it was in the castle when we escaped. It was never removed. Not until after Dumbledore’s death, at least.”

“What do you mean, not until after his death?” Low and dangerous, Draco’s voice cut between them, and Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself for the answer.

“When McGonagall got out, she took the sword with her; other than her wand, it was the only thing that she went for, but it’s gone.”

Deflating before her, Theo said, “What do you mean it’s gone?”

She set her hands in her lap, the wand discarded at her feet. “It’s gone; we don’t-- well, I don’t know where it is. So it stands to reason that it’s--”

Across from her, Luna tentatively leaned forward, eyes alight with hope. “But what if it’s not gone?”

The optimism in her friend’s voice flayed Hermione open, and she took a fortifying breath before answering. “Luna, there’s no other place for it to be; McGonagall could have--”

Shaking her head, Luna cradled Theo’s hand in her own absently. “It’s goblin made; goblin-made metal is near impossible to destroy.” She grimaced, flashing an apologetic look to Hermione. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think Ron is capable of destroying it, no matter how angry he was or how much he’s come into his magic since joining the Dark Lord.”

Tapping her fingers on her knees, Hermione nodded. “So if the sword is out there, we’ve already established it as the best means by which to destroy--”

Again, Luna raised a hand, smiling serenely at the room at large. “Yes, Lovegood?” Draco prompted with a quiet clearing of his throat, a small smile playing about his lips.

“Though it may be the best way, it’s not the only way.” She breezed upward, summoning the small pack that she’d brought with her upon her arrival. Unlike Hermione’s, it was not charmed with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and her rummaging took only a moment. Her hand disappeared inside, feeling around for a moment, the sound of odds and ends knocking together, and a moment later, she pulled out two long, ivory implements that looked oddly like…

“Basilisk fangs,” Hermione breathed, something like hope crowding in her chest.

A brilliant smile lit Luna’s face, followed by a short nod. “Indeed. Before I left the castle--when it wasn’t safe to be there any longer--I asked the Room for a tool to help turn the tide of the war. Didn’t think it’d work but--” Twin spots of colour rose to her fair cheeks, and Hermione barked an incredulous laugh at a request that was so whimsical in its innocence. “When they appeared alongside the books on horcruxes, I thought it was too much of a coincidence to pass on.”

With a whoop, Theo shot up, wrapping his arms around Luna and spinning her in a wide circle. When he set her back on her feet, he looked between the three of them. Optimism was palpable among the ragtag group. “So…”

“We have everything we need to kill him,” Hermione whispered, disbelief lacing every word. It wasn’t that she was scared--no, quite the opposite. She looked forward to the time she met him as a man, when all of his horcruxes were gone and he stood before her, a shell of a wizard.

He’d have to face her.

But to have it all laid before her, the end within sight, was a reality she hadn’t expected to face so soon, if ever.

A sharp pang ran through her core, eyes misting as she turned away from them. She wished Harry had lived to see the end of it all.

Harry, who never got to experience life outside of the terror of Voldemort constantly gunning for him. Harry, who seemed to always find the good in the bad, even if it was bloody Quidditch and ridiculous schemes that he and Ron had cooked up. Another sharp stab of pain reminded her of Ron, and she found herself grateful that Harry hadn’t lived to see his best friend so thoroughly corrupted.

But Draco’s serious tone stalled them again from where he’d cross to stare out the door. “That’s all well and good, but where are these horcruxes?” Hands slipping behind his back, he paced, his face hard as he thought it through. “The Dark Lord isn’t likely to leave them lying about the place; by their very nature, horcruxes are dark, volatile magic. Imbuing them in such well-known vessels was a risk as is.”

Hermione nodded, turning back to the book as her mind whirred, trying to place pieces of the puzzle. “But he wanted to show the world how powerful he is; using such sacred magical objects was a direct affront to magic, to the tenants we hold dear.”

Theo hummed, head tilting back to study the ceiling as he followed Hermione’s line of thought. “And what better way to do so than defile those objects and then hide them away in plain sight.”

“The diary was used to corrupt something wholly innocent,” Hermione murmured, ignoring Draco’s snort at her reference to Ginevra Weasley’s innocence. “Harry worked out that the Gaunt’s ring was to punish his family, his mother’s ancestry.”

“But Slytherin’s locket?” Theo mused.

Luna answered him. “Likely a tribute to his heritage; it would have been his by birthright.”

Draco continued, “The locket and the diadem would be a way to prove to everyone that the founders weren’t as powerful as everyone thinks they are; it would also sully the founders’ memories to be associated with the horcruxes.” He chewed on his lips, brows drawn in consternation. “But the diadem is lost; no one has seen it in centuries.”

Again, Luna perked up. “It’s not lost; no one in living memory has seen it. But that doesn’t mean it’s lost.”

With an audible pop, Hermione’s jaw dropped open, eyeing the Ravenclaw with wide eyes. “Luna, that’s… that’s it.” She crossed to her friend, carefully taking her shoulders. “No one in living memory has seen it, but Hogwarts is full of those who aren’t living.”

A serene smile graced Luna’s face. “I’m sure the Grey Lady can direct us to its location.”

“And the snake was the only thing I’ve ever seen him show even a modicum of fondness for, and it further underscores his connection to Slytherin,” Theo finished, silence falling between them.

A short sob of relief gusted from Hermione’s throat as she looked toward the boys. “That’s three. One with He Who Must Not Be Named, one with Ron, one in Hogwarts.”

Finally, after a few moments, Luna asked, “And what about Harry?”

 

That uncomfortable weight settled on Hermione again, the grief and guilt of it all, and she swallowed it down, trying to appear disaffected as she answered. “An accident. He never meant to make Harry a horcrux at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Not much news on this end, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter. As always, mega creds to my stellar alpha and beta, LadyKenz347 and tofadeawayagain respectively. I'm super excited to have you all with me as this fic is nearing the end, and I hope you've all enjoyed this installation. I know it feels a bit slow moving at this point, but we're cresting soon and it'll be all downhill, quick action from there. Drop me a line if you enjoyed this! I love to hear your thoughts! If you need something lighter to check out in the interim, my WIP Scripted is mostly written (two chapters to go!) and a romcom based on The Ugly Truth


	34. Reversed Four of Cups

**Chapter 34 -** _**Reversed Four of Cups** _

They spent the next two days planning.

Though Hermione argued that it would be a fool's errand, Draco insisted that they would have to return to Hogwarts. Much to Hermione's chagrin, Luna agreed.

For the first time since they'd left the camp, Hermione was filled with a sense of urgency and determination that buoyed her waning spirit. Coupled with the growing urge to unleash the magic boiling beneath her skin and the turmoil of her emotions, sitting within the walls of the cabin was enough to make her scream.

And when Malfoy continued to make small advances on her, she couldn't help retreating into herself, if only out of self-preservation.

Part of her wondered if it had been a mistake to kiss him like that so soon after getting her memories back and with doubt still rioting in her head.

Another part of her begged to do it again. But she couldn't shake the stranglehold of trepidation she felt. At a loss for what to do, she settled back onto her cot, twirling the Elder Wand between her fingertips.

The cabin was stifling. So many of them in such a small area reminded her of the beginning, of the days when she, Ron, and Harry had gone on the run. Before they'd found the others and before they'd lost it all.

Before  _she'd_  lost it all.

Being stuck here with Theo, Luna, and Draco held a different kind of hope than she'd felt previously. Before, it had been blind stumbling, hoping to find answers in the little bit of information Dumbledore had left them. Now, they knew what the horcruxes were—or at least had a good idea of what they were—and they had a place to start.

Or they would if they could agree on anything.

"Our best option is to start at Hogwarts." Theo pointed at the crude map they'd traced into the worn floor with their wands. One X was burned into the floor for the diadem, another alongside the castle for the locket with Ron. "We need to start at the location with the most horcruxes first, then work out. Like a fan."

Luna nodded alongside him, her big blue eyes gazing down at the floor. "Theo's right. Hogwarts is familiar territory; once we know those are destroyed, we can determine where others might be."

Silence fell between them as she scrutinised the map. One X over Malfoy Manor, burned deeper in the floor than the others—Draco's anger had gotten the best of him. Draco was sure the snake was one of the horcruxes given how closely Voldemort watched over it. The remaining X was etched just outside the outlines they'd drawn, the location of the final horcrux uncertain.

The memories were a start, and knowing that she'd asked for it herself was small consolation for the doubt that had begun to creep in at every opportunity.

If she couldn't trust herself, who could she trust?

A floorboard creaked behind Hermione, and each of them whirled and pointed their wands toward the open, empty doorway. Theo shoved Luna behind him; she was defenseless without a wand.

With a ripple of the landscape and another creak of the floorboards, the figure appeared, illuminated by sunlight glinting off the remaining snow outside. Hermione couldn't contain her gasp at the sight, unconcerned by the intruder. Her gaze was trained on the nondescript cloak discarded on the cabin floor.

The invisibility cloak.  _Harry's_  invisibility cloak.

Beside her, Malfoy loosened a strangled gasp, his wand clattering to his feet. Another sharp huff of breath left him, and he tore across the room, colliding with the figure in a bruising embrace.

Luna and Theo exchanged glances out of the corner of Hermione's eyes, though neither of them shifted from their defensive crouch. Hermione could tell who the woman was by the way she gathered up Draco in her arms, the complete abandon with which he'd thrown himself at her.

Confirming her suspicions, Draco released the newcomer, and Narcissa Malfoy strode through the doorway, dress robes tattered and a bruise blossoming on her face. Her lip was split, but she spoke with the same strong but distant tone Hermione had come to respect. "I do hope you haven't been waiting terribly long for me." With a grimace, she withdrew her hand from her robes, a glint of gold flashing as she tipped it forward, the metal slipping from her fingers and clattering to the ground.

Hermione was sure she was imagining the glimmer of gold, the scripted H set in the fine gold plating of the ancient chalice. The cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Another horcrux. Leaning down, she picked it up and an eerily familiar voice lashed out at her, haunting words echoing within the confines of her mind.

_The discarded Mudblood. A last resort weapon, picked up only when she's halfway useful to someone else. They'll use you and leave you, filth._

Gasping, Hermione dropped the cup. The words replayed like a mantra in her head as it crashed against the floor.

_They'll leave you._

Her vision went hazy, eyes locked on the floor, seeing nothing as rage and shock roiled within her.

And then Draco was before her, cupping her elbows as she stared down at the innocuous trinket in shock. "Granger, what's wrong?"

She didn't realise her hands were shaking until her gaze focused, and then she noticed the thin layer of ice that covered her hands, curling along her forearms. The cup, too, was covered in frost, a thick, white layer obscuring the filigree. When Malfoy shook her slightly, she flicked her gaze up to his, her voice stronger than she'd thought it would be. " _It's the cup."_

Confusion settled in his eyes, but when he looked down, his sharp intake of breath indicated his understanding. He swung his gaze to his mother, a single word escaping on his exhalation. " _How_?"

Tilting her nose upward, Narcissa sniffed. "I'll explain after I'm offered a seat."

As one, Hermione and Theo moved backward, Draco striding forward to offer Narcissa his arm, and he escorted her to the cot Hermione had been using. The woman settled onto it, wincing as she jostled the wound she concealed within her robes.

Draco hurried to her side, crouching beside her. Hermione watched the way they interacted, the clear worry in his expression as he prodded Narcissa until the woman sighed and carefully pulled her arm from her side, revealing the injury that made her wince.

From her ribcage to her hip, Narcissa's robes had been scalded, and angry mottled skin peeked out from the charred edges. Five centimetre-wide boils had sprung up along the burnt skin, their edges weeping with dark pus. The swaths of fabric that had been covering the wound peeled away the dried edges, reopening the flesh; sickly brown blood quickly seeped to the surface.

Exhaling sharply, Hermione directed the others in the room before she was even aware she was moving. "Theo, I need snow. Luna, what else did you manage to bring with you?"

Her friend's carefree expression pinched into a contemplative frown, and she reached for her bag. From within, Luna extracted a tiny vial, labeled with a careful script: burn paste. Luna peered up at her, expression contrite. "This is all I have."

Heart dropping as she eyed the extent to the damage, Hermione reached for it. "It's not enough." Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Luna's shoulders drop, and she turned to her friend. "It's okay; we'll figure it out." The reassurance was enough for Luna, who spun on her heel and followed Theo out of the cabin.

Turning, Hermione approached Narcissa, interrupting the quiet hum of conversation between the woman and her son. She crouched before the elder witch, gaze roving over the wound. The majority of it appeared to be healed already, but large areas still worried her. Before she could apply the paste, though, Narcissa reached out, staying her hand.

"Let me." There was no mistaking Narcissa's command, and Hermione silently passed her the paste, sympathy heavy on her shoulders at the renewed wince.

A thousand questions raced through Hermione's mind as Narcissa methodically opened the paste and set it aside, patiently waiting for Theo and Luna to return so she could clean the wound, but Draco broke the silence. "What happened?"

Narcissa delicately lifted her shoulder, her colour paling at the movement. "I received Theodore's message through Luna." The floor creaked as the aforementioned witch and wizard re-entered the cabin, treading quickly over the barren floor and smearing the map they'd created. "But the Dark Lord warded the manor."

Nodding to herself, Hermione dipped her rag into the cool water, ringing it loose before she brought it up to brush over Narcissa's side. To her relief, the majority of that lacerations proved shallow, and only two of them were actively oozing. Flicking her eyes upward as she worked, Hermione prompted, "And what caused this?"

A pained laugh tinkled out of Narcissa. "The burns or the cuts?" Hermione's hand stilled and she looked up at the woman, brow furrowed. "Two different incidents, my dear." Naricissa's opposite hand came up, gently moving Hermione away as she cast a quiet  _Scourgify_  over her robes. Deeming it clean enough with a sharp nod, she covered the wound. "That'll do."

Beside her, Draco reached out, clasping Narcissa's hands. "But Mother, there's still—"

The woman leveled a sharp look at her son, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat, dread roaring through her as the woman smiled sadly. "There's nothing for it, I'm afraid."

Draco froze, face rippling through several emotions—fear, anger, dread, then back to fear—before he schooled his expression carefully blank. "What do you mean?"

Smiling sadly, Narcissa reached out, wrapping her hand around her son's. "There's nothing that can be done, my dragon." Taking a deep breath, she blinked several times, looking sightlessly at the floorboards. "The Dark Lord warded the manor with very dark magic, magic I've never seen used outside of hearsay from the first wizarding war." Pushing herself upright with a wince, Narcissa crossed to the cabin's window. "It's a curse, and not of the benevolent kind, if there's such a thing."

Luna tipped her head to the side, her lilting tone sober. "Missus Malfoy, I'm not sure now—"

Turning, the woman leveled them all with a severe look. "There is no time other than now. The war is here; the Dark Lord has risen. He has power like we've never seen before, and he  _will_  succeed if you do not listen to me." Her tone was glacial, far harsher than Hermione had ever heard from the woman's lips before.

A low, sick feeling roiled in her stomach, and Hermione forced it away as she stood, approaching Narcissa. "How much time?"

But Malfoy marched forward, grim determination in his eyes as he swept past Hermione. Once more, he gathered his mother's hands in his own and peered down at her pleadingly. His voice broke when he spoke. "Mother, we can figure something out." He drew in a shuddering breath. " _Please_."

She knew that tone, that utter desperation to find an answer that would prevent the inevitable. It was the same tattered plea when she'd found her parents, when she'd begged for Harry to just come back and for Ron to wake up. It was heart rending and painfully honest, and she watched as it tore at Narcissa.

Cradling his cheek, Narcissa's eyes darted back and forth between Draco's. "We can't, my son." Tears sprang to life in the woman's eyes. "There's no way to counteract it; I'm weak. It's stolen my strength— my magic." A deep sigh stuttered out of her. "I've always known. For as long as I've known Miss Granger was the last strand of hope we had in all of this, I've known that this was my end."

The air stilled, the revelation heavy on each of their shoulders, and Hermione stared back at Narcissa's calm grey gaze.

All of this time… she'd known it would come down to this.

The truth was in every serene line of the woman's face: why she'd not fought when Voldemort pushed her over the railing at the manor, why she  _had_ fought so hard to heal Hermione. She'd known, and she'd done it anyway.

Draco was trembling, whether with fear or anger Hermione couldn't tell, but he gripped his mother's hand tightly, his voice low. "I can't lose you."

A serene smile lifted his mother's lips. "Are those we love ever truly gone?" She lifted her chin defiantly, masking her pain with another brilliant smile. "If it stops the Dark Lord, then my purpose will have been served."

Draco stiffened, and Hermione could tell that he was forcing himself from fleeing, from running out of the cabin to deal with the grief that threatened to overtake him. Instead, he gripped Narcissa's hands tighter and guided the woman back to the cot she'd been sitting on, unable to meet her gaze.

Once Narcissa was settled, she breathed out a pained sigh. Hermione and Luna settled on the floor before her, and Theo stood just beside Draco, his hand resting on Draco's shoulder in silent support that sent a grateful flicker through her.

Regardless of all the unknown between them, she wanted to take away that pain from him. He'd suffered enough.

But war spared no one, and this was a storm they'd all weather together.

After a moment of fraught silence, Narcissa reached into the folds of her robe opposite her injury and produced a small bag, reminiscent of Hermione's own beaded bag. Carefully undoing the drawstring, she reached into its depths, her arm disappearing within the depths for a moment before it emerged, holding a thick, leather-bound book.

Draco sucked in a breath, spine going rigid before them. "Mother, is—"

"The Black family grimoire?" Narcissa finished, nodding. "It is." She eyed Theo and Luna carefully. "May I have a moment alone with Miss Granger and my son? Forgive me for being rude, but under the circumstances…"

With a final, discreet squeeze to Draco's shoulder, Theo turned, extending a hand to help Luna up, and the two exited the way they'd entered.

Alone with Narcissa and Draco, Hermione shifted, willing someone else to speak. Discomfort and nervous anticipation curled up her spine, wrapping itself around her in a suffocating embrace.

Narcissa peered at the cover of the grimoire, slim fingers tracing the leather before she spoke. "This grimoire has been in my family for centuries." She swallowed, eyes misting with memories. "It's not left the possession of the Black family in the time of its existence, but—" She turned, extending the tome to Hermione. "It seems there comes a time for everything."

Shocked wasn't the right word to explain how Hermione felt. The synapses in her brain stopped functioning as the woman extended her hands, the heavy, worn book hanging between them. Hermione's gaze shot up, finding Narcissa with a kind smile and an expectant brow, once again offering the tome. Tentatively, she reached forward, fingers wrapping around the book.

Hermione wasn't sure what she expected to happen, but her heart sank a little when the book landed in her lap with no fanfare. No magical currents ran through her; she didn't experience an epiphany of any kind, and the earth didn't quake with a sudden monumental shift.

But Narcissa smiled all the same, tipping her head toward the grimoire. "That grimoire holds the secrets of every Black witch since 1420. It is our written history—as well as the coinciding wizarding world's—since the Blacks fancied themselves as collectors of magic, rare and common." Narcissa paused, worrying the hem of her cloak between her fingertips. "I've searched it front to back for the cure to the curse that Lord Voldemort placed on me to no avail. If there was one, it should be in that book."

Huffing out a humourless laugh, Draco crossed his arms. "If there's nothing of use in there, why are you giving it to Granger?"

Though she didn't echo him, Hermione wondered the same. It didn't appear to be immediately useful, and if they were to bring the war to Voldemort, they would need to travel lightly.

Narcissa continued without further prompting, her voice entirely too nonchalant for the bomb she dropped. "This book also contains the spellwork to undo what you may consider a curse on you, Miss Granger."

The words washed over Hermione, but she couldn't comprehend them for a moment, gaze rapidly shooting between the grimoire, Draco, and Narcissa. And then it dawned on her.  _The_ curse. The one that had landed her here, that allowed Malfoy to control her if he wished.

It hadn't happened since they'd fled the camp; he carefully avoided commands directed at her, and he'd given her the space that she desperately needed to figure out what this all meant.

She'd always been good at magic. Top of her class with a thirst to know more, to do better, and though she had to work at it, magic came naturally to her most of the time.

But  _this_  magic—the power this curse afforded her—had settled into the very bones and sinews of her body, changing the way she viewed magic and herself. When she didn't have the strength to survive anymore, it had wrapped her in its embrace and protected her. Through all of the trauma of the past months, this magic had been her constant. The more she learned it, the less of a burden it felt; now it was like something she'd never known was missing.

_Was_  it even a curse anymore?

Narcissa coughed lightly, drawing Hermione's attention again. "Of course, you don't need to make any decisions now. I would advise against it. But given the situation…" The woman looked away, shifting uncomfortably. "It's in your hands now; should the curse that the Dark Lord used on me prove as rapidly moving as I anticipate, you will have access to it when, or  _if_ , you need it."

No matter how much she wanted to reassure the woman they would find a way to stop her demise, how badly she wanted to reach out and clasp Narcissa's hands, Hermione clutched the grimoire, weighing the implications that it brought for her and those hidden away with her.

She could stop it all. With this magic, she could bring Voldemort to his knees, and then she could disappear, using this magic to cloak herself from the rest of the world and exist alone.

"All I ask," Narcissa said, "is that you consider all possibilities before making a decision." Hermione swung her gaze to the woman and nodded once.

Beside her, Draco spoke, resolutely ignoring the book in her hands. "How did you get the horcrux?"

Hermione jolted, realising the forgotten cup still rested on the floor of the cabin, and she summoned it with a sharp wave of her hand. Unfocused as it was, the cup clattered over the floorboards, rolling to a stop between her and Malfoy.

Doubling over, Narcissa plucked the cup from the floor, studying its design. "Bella has never been one to keep her secrets," Narcissa mused, "and when she became secretive about the family vault, I investigated."

Draco frowned. "So you just took it?"

Another tinkling laugh left Narcissa, this one slightly pained, and Hermione had to cut her gaze away from the obvious discomfort. "It took some planning; there's a rather convincing duplicate in the vault, but she'll discover it eventually. All duplicates eventually rot."

A jolt of nervous magic shot to her fingertips, dancing between her fingers as she summoned her beaded bag and stowed the grimoire inside to be dealt with later. "Let's get started."

* * *

They stood in a curved line, each of them squinting in the sunlight as they stared at the horcrux. It looked innocent, sunlight glinting off its unassuming facets. But Hermione knew, could  _feel_ , the inky darkness roiling within, and her magic reared up inside of her, battering against the walls of her chest in a desperate bid to crush the bit of Voldemort trapped within the cup.

There had been no discussion about who would be the one to destroy it. Instead, each of them had taken a fang, sans Narcissa, and filed out the door. The cup was balanced on a fallen log, and now each of them stood on the precipice of this final step of the rebellion— the reckoning of Tom Riddle.

None of them spoke, the silence tense, and suddenly Draco was tearing across the clearing.

She couldn't articulate what drew her after him, but before she could stop herself, she was running, air forcing itself painfully past her lungs in panicked gasps.

"Draco!" She tried to stop him, tried to warn him what could happen, but he didn't stop until he skidded into the log, him momentum carrying him over as he thrust his arm forward, the basilisk fang crashing into the cold metal of the cup.

A horrible, high-pitched screeching echoed through the clearing, the roiling blackness Hermione had sensed within the cup billowing outward with a scream. It was a tidal wave, harsh and unforgiving, as it bloomed outward, colliding with the dome of charms protecting the cabin. Propelled forward by her fear, Hermione slipped on a patch of muddy ground, crashing to her knees and sliding forward until she collided into Draco.

But he didn't see her, eyes wide and fixed on the deep grey smoke that rolled out of the depths of the cup. Bile climbed up her throat as she saw what had transfixed him so.

Bodies. Each of them laid out neatly side by side, gaze blank and staring upward at the canopy of trees overhead. Their faces were ashy and waxen, lips parted in varying degrees of the screams they had uttered before their death. Theo. Luna. Narcissa. Hermione. Several others who looked vaguely familiar though she couldn't immediately place them.

His breath came out in shallow gasps, tears filling his eyes and spilling over as he lurched forward, reaching frantically for the bodies of those who he cared for.

And then a low, hissing voice spread through the haze. "All that fighting for naught." Rumbling laughter punctuated the statement, and the dead bodies animated, sitting upright to stare at Draco. Their mouths opened simultaneously, the words issuing from within. "Draco Malfoy, the blood traitor."

Draco was stock still beside her, his jaw trembling as he stared at their bodies, wand useless at his side.

"The Dark Lord will kill us all, and you will watch. And when we're dead, he will kill you, too."

The voices were so like those of their living counterparts that Hermione fought to ignore what they said, and she pushed herself upright onto her knees, tugging on Draco's arm as she positioned herself between him and the horcrux. "They're not real, Draco. It's  _not real_ ," she cried, shaking him, but he wouldn't look away. Cool smoke brushed against her shoulder, and she knew that they'd advanced, incorporeal puppets standing behind her as she delivered Voldemort's poisonous words.

"You're a failure," the Theo look-alike spewed, vitriol colouring his words, but Hermione could hear the hiss of Voldemort's tone beneath it.

Draco shook, eyes pressing shut as he crumpled, and Hermione gripped his chin, forcing his face towards her. "I'm right here, Draco." Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and hopeful disbelief bloomed in them, his hand shooting upright to clasp hers. "Just look at me."

Behind her, she could hear the figures speaking, vile words meant to destroy Draco, but she talked through them. "It's not real. None of it is real."

His grip on her tightened, his lifeline in the smoke, and her heart clenched at the veritable whirlwind of emotion that clutched at her heart at the vulnerability in his eyes. Memories crashed over her. His gentle touch, their quiet moments together in the Room of Requirement, all of it more genuine than anything she'd felt before, and then she remembered Narcissa's words.

_This is the kind of magic that knows no boundaries when accepted._

And the final wall within her broke as she threaded her fingers through Draco's and crushed her lips to his, throwing everything she could into the Elder Wand at the horcrux behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey all! Thanks for reading tonight! I'm sorry this is a bit late; it was a long day and I wasn't able to get notes from my beta until just a bit ago. I hope you all enjoyed, and thank you again for all your lovely thoughts. I really appreciate everyone for reading along; you truly make my day with your love. Before I go, a plug for a friend: if you're not reading Nocturnus by In Dreams, stop now and read it! I have the privilege of betaing for her and it's INCREDIBLE. You don't want to miss it.
> 
> Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and beta love to tofadeawayagain.


	35. Reversed Two of Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I'm sorry this is a bit later than normal tonight. Due to some content issues, I had to revise a large chunk of this. Turns out my writing style has changed a lot since I started drafting this in 2016 lol! A million thanks to my stellar beta, tofadeawayagain, for stepping in tonight to help me work out a scene that was troubling me and LadyKenz347 for also pointing it out. Seriously, on top of those of you who continue to read and enjoy this story and the lovely authors I get to work with, I truly can't believe how lucky I am sometimes. Y'all mean the world to me, so thank you for your thoughts and time.

**Chapter 35 -** _**Reversed Two of Swords** _

Her ears were ringing, a horribly disorienting pulse that distracted her from the chaos around her for a moment. Slowly, her surroundings came back to her, each piece falling in place as the seconds ticked by.

The ringing faded incrementally, and she stretched her fingers slowly, taking inventory of her body before she lifted her head. Everything felt whole other than the pound of her head, and when she shifted, her knee brushed against the figure in front of her, his arms wrapped protectively around her body.

Draco.

He'd curled in on their embrace, tucking his head into the space between her shoulder and chin. Their breaths mingled together, and she couldn't tell whether the heartbeat that pounded erratically was hers or his.

Slowly, she pulled away, taking care not to jolt him too much. Dirt and mud had sprayed outward from the destroyed horcrux, the grime sticking to her exposed skin where the outward pressure had blown her shirt up.

"Draco?" She moved again, eyeing the tear tracks down his cheeks as he blinked up at her, eyes glassy. "I'm here, Draco."

Echoing the words he'd said to her so many times in the dungeons of his ancestral home seemed to jolt him out of the stupor, and his gaze focused on hers. "Is it gone?" he whispered, voice hoarse and strained.

It crushed her to see him so broken, the emotions shattering the last wall she'd built to distance herself from him. Blindly groping for his hand, Hermione heaved out a stuttering breath. "It's gone. You destroyed it."

His snorted laugh gusted over her, derision colouring his tone when he spoke. "I  _cowered_ , Granger. You destroyed it, not me." His eyes shuttered, gaze sliding away from her. "I don't deserve that credit."

" _Don't_." When he refused to meet her eyes, she reached up, snagging his chin between her fingertips. "Draco Malfoy, you  _do not_  get to hide from me." She shifted, directing his gaze over her shoulder. The smouldering remains of the cup glinted from the depths of a crater, and she startled for a moment, heart skipping at the carnage of the magic. Had they been responsible for that? Clearing her throat, she directed her attention back to him. "You did that." At the subtle roll of his eyes, she amended, "Okay,  _we_ did that. Are you happy now?"

Inexplicably, his face brightened, a genuine smile lighting the dark shadows that had come to shroud his features. It was strange, though not altogether unwelcome, and she cleared her throat, unable to tear her gaze from his. "What?"

He leaned upright, searching her face as his hand came up, pushing a curl behind her ear. "There you are." Tender hope laced his words, and her stomach swooped in response. "You came back to me." Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. It was everything the fear driven kiss on the broken porch hadn't been, and this time Hermione allowed herself to fall into it.

Something in her soul settled, and a peace she hadn't known for some time washed over her. Of their own accord, her hands lifted, fisting in the front of his filthy shirt as he turned, cradling her jaw in his hand as though she would shatter if he handled her any less delicately. And then he broke away, her lips chasing his for a moment before he rested his forehead against hers with a deep sigh. "I missed you."

She couldn't rightly say the same-she'd not known there was anything to be missed-but she smiled, lids falling shut in contentment as she whispered the one truth she could offer him: "I'm sorry."

The apology loosened a torrent of emotions, and she pitched forward, wrapping her arms around Draco.

Home. She was  _home_.

Behind them, Theo surreptitiously cleared his throat, and both Draco and Hermione turned. "I wondered if you were ever going to come up for air," Theo snarked, a relieved grin pulling his features upward. Luna approached from behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist as Narcissa lingered behind, inscrutable emotions colouring her eyes. Gently disentangling himself from Luna, he strode forward and offered Hermione a hand. "Glad to have you back, Granger."

A broad grin spread across her face, relief palpable within her as she clasped it and rose. "Glad to be back."

* * *

They spent the remainder of the day planning, Narcissa's commanding tone guiding them through the remaining horcruxes as she confirmed their suspicions: locket, diadem, snake. At least two of them were with Voldemort, making Theo and Luna's case even stronger.

They had to return to Hogwarts.

Luna was confident that the Grey Lady would know something about the diadem. As she consulted with the group about where they should look for the ghost once they entered the castle, Hermione fought the nerves that coiled in a tight knot in her chest. She'd never intended to return to Hogwarts.

Not when she'd left for the horcrux hunt with Harry and Ron, not when she'd had Theo plant the false memories in her mind, and certainly not after stunning Ron on the grounds near the macabre display of Dumbledore's preserved body. What had once been so familiar to her only encouraged a sea of trepidation to wash over her.

Her breathing had escalated, harsh exhalations pushing past her lips though she tried desperately to quell them. Black spots danced in the air around her; without thinking, her hand squeezed Draco's in her lap.

_I'm here, Granger._ Familiar and warm, his voice washed over her, carefully echoing down that connection he'd forged with the casting of the spell.

"What do we do?" She fidgeted with her transfigured cloak sleeve, pulling the thin material down over her knuckles. Without direction and fighting the panic that clawed up her throat, she was adrift in uncertainty.

Luna shrugged, suggesting, "We could split up."

Tension immediately shot through the room, and Hermione rocketed upright. "Absolutely not. Not after we've just found each other again." She'd made that mistake before, and she wasn't eager to make it again. Particularly not given their recent narrow escapes from Death.

But Narcissa nodded, carefully folding her hands on her lap. "It is perhaps the best chance we have." Pursing her lips, the woman considered the crackling fire before continuing. "While not ideal, if something were to happen… at least we wouldn't lose everything in one fell swoop. And while one group of us works on obtaining the horcrux, the other could create a diversion."

There was a bitter truth in her words that Hermione didn't want to acknowledge,  _couldn't_ acknowledge as Draco's hand cinched tighter around her own. She canted her head anyway, thinking aloud. "If we split up, we'd need to remain in contact. Patronuses will be too conspicuous." She chewed on her lip for a moment. "We could duplicate the spell on the parchment, but it would take time."

Narcissa shifted uncomfortably, her visage pale, and Hermione felt a knot lodge itself in her throat. Time was a luxury none of them had, least of all Narcissa. But Luna leaned forward, frowning at the parchment. "Why not duplicate the parchment?" Looking up with large, round eyes, Luna offered a tentative smile. "We really only need two copies. One for you two—" Her eyes passed over Draco and Hermione "—and one for us."

Despite the nerves that seemed to wrap around her throat in a vice grip, Hermione nodded, gesturing to Luna to duplicate the parchment.

A flicker of a smile flit across Narcissa's face, and Hermione felt another pawn falling into place as the woman's gaze softened and she turned, taking her son's hands in her own. "My dragon, I've long known what was waiting for me with this war." A faraway longing softened the woman's face further, and Hermione could see the beauty she had been in her youth as she reached out and smoothed a hand over Draco's mussed hair. "But you, dear son… you have a chance to live beyond this, to have a family. To have the love I never had."

A prickling discomfort welled in Hermione's throat at watching the woman say good-bye. And though she longed to move, to get up and allow them some privacy, some part of her knew she needed to be there. If for no other reason than to support Draco and disprove any lingering doubts Narcissa might have—Sight or not. When Draco's fingers curled in on themselves, Hermione's heart constricted, and without thinking, she sent an echo of his own reminder to her through their connection:  _I'm here, Draco._

His shoulders sagged as some of the tension went out of them. "Mother, I'm— I'm sorry."

Narcissa swallowed thickly, tears sparkling in the matriarch's eyes. "As am I, my dragon. As am I."

Hermione tore her gaze away from them as Draco leaned in, curling into the embrace his mother offered. It was a small modicum of privacy in the small quarters of the cabin, but it was the least she could offer to the woman who saved her life.

As though she'd sensed the shift in Hermione, Luna settled on the floor next to her, propping her chin on Hermione's shoulder as the blonde witch detailed the charms that she'd used to create them.

The spellwork was simple enough. However, replicating the concealment charm correct would have taken Luna far more time than they had, and Hermione found herself grateful that Luna had simply offered to duplicate the parchment. Even now, as she listened to the girl's lilting voice discuss the way the Marauder's Map was charmed and how she'd used those in conjunction with the D.A. charm, Hermione appreciated the cunning needed to weave the complex warding spell.

Perhaps the influence of the Slytherins would be their saving grace in more ways than one.

Positioning herself on the other side of the parchment, Luna summoned her gifted wand and pressed the tip of it to the paper. "It's a rather simple incantation to ensure that the spells accompany the copy; it's the wandwork that the tricky part." She pressed her lips into a thin line, the faintest hint of her tongue poking out the side—a habit Hermione had noticed when they began taking classes together so long ago.

As Luna's wand traced intricate patterns over the parchment, familiar incantations falling melodically from her lips, Hermione watched, transfixed.

It was much like layering protective spells over her campsite with Harry and Ron. Each spell fed into the next, building on one another and offering strengths to mend a prior charm's weaknesses. It was beautiful in its complexity and brilliant in its craft, though she never expected any less of Luna. After several minutes of quiet, concentrated spellcraft, Luna twisted her wand again, a shower of golden sparks arcing from its tip toward the parchment. With a brilliant smile, Luna leaned back, speaking into the silence as another copy of the parchment settled on top of the first. "All done."

A knot worked its way into Hermione's throat, compromising her ability to speak for a moment as they all rose, filing toward the door to the cabin. This might be the last time she saw her friends alive, and the realisation did nothing to calm the dread that had begun to simmer in her core at Narcissa's gifting of the Black grimoire.

Lips thinning into a firm line, Narcissa filled the silence. "Theo, Luna, and I will return to Hogwarts." She grimaced, gaze flickering to the floor before she continued, almost as though she was unable to meet her son's gaze. "Severus owes me a life debt. He'll get us into the castle. What happens after that depends on how well we can make it through the castle undetected."

"I can help with that." With a wave of her hand, Hermione's satchel soared across the room, landing softly on the ground before her. Dipping her hand inside, she caressed the worn fabric of the invisibility cloak where she'd stored it in the bag's depths.

Part of her wanted to keep it —  _screamed_ at her to keep it, this last connection to Harry and another third of the Deathly Hallows. Logically, she knew that the cloak was one step forward to her defeat of Voldemort, especially if uniting the Hallows was as monumental as the wizarding world believed it to be.

But a larger part of her, the part that she'd found buried in the memories that she'd forgotten, realised that her friends needed it more than she did. And so she pulled the cloak free, its lengths spilling forth and settling on her legs.

"This is a cloak of invisibility. If I'm not mistaken, it's  _the_ cloak of invisibility, one of the three Hallows." Her fingers trailed along the material, marveling at its lack of snags or marring despite its obvious age. "It's how Harry, Ron, and I were able to get around Hogwarts after hours." Hermione didn't miss Luna's obvious flinch at Ron's name, and she wound her fist in the fabric to stop the sharp flash of anger that tore through her. "It's not overly large, but it should be enough for two of you to make it through the castle. Particularly in the dark, lest it doesn't cover your feet entirely."

Extending the cloak, Hermione waited, silence hanging between them. After a moment, Theo reached out, accepting the folded fabric, but it was Luna who spoke. "Hermione, you ought to keep that. One more and you're—"

"The master of Death?" The title felt unwieldy and awkward on her tongue, a crown she'd never wanted. "If I've escaped death thus far, I think I'll manage a little longer."

Hermione didn't miss the flash of satisfaction that crossed Narcissa's face, followed closely by a grimace, but the woman cleared her throat delicately as she schooled her features, drawing attention back to her. "I will request a meeting with Severus. He will allow me to enter through his Floo if he knows what is good for him, and I will hold it open long enough to allow Theo and Luna to enter with me."

Luna's serene smile was tinged with nerves when she finished for Narcissa. "And Theo and I will speak to the Grey Lady." Her tiny hand enveloped Hermione's, her soulful blue eyes locking on Hermione's. "We'll find it, Hermione. I know it."

There was little room in her for hope, but sitting together with the small group that had become family—again, despite the odds—Hermione allowed herself to foster the flame that lit within her, stoked by her magic.

Without further discussion, they all stood, each summoning their belongings, few though they were. The sense of urgency in the room had heightened with the acknowledgement of the cloak as a Hallow, and Hermione tried to quell the part of her that didn't want to allow it out of the room.

It was power, and coupled with the magic in her veins, she wondered if it was an endgame that she was allowing to slip through her fingers. Perhaps it was the only way to defeat Voldemort...

But then her gaze cut to Narcissa, the way she embraced her son and whispered in his ear, tears in her eyes that she refused to let fall, and something told her that she wouldn't allow anything further to befall her son if she could stop it.

Again, the woman's words echoed through her mind.  _I've known Miss Granger was the last strand of hope we had in all of this._

If nothing else, she'd finish this for Narcissa. Another casualty of the Dark Lord's hand she'd have to avenge.

"What about you and Draco?" Theo asked, his voice low as he embraced her. His trepidation was clear in the way he cupped her elbows and peered closely at her face, fine lines of concern at the corners of his eyes as he tried to gauge what was going through her mind. "What will you do?"

A flicker of fear and resignation deep in his gaze told Hermione he already knew the answer to his question, but she understood his need to ask. If only for the confirmation, she'd have done the same.

"Draco and I go back." A deep breath stuttered in her throat. Though she swallowed, it only seemed to swell thicker, robbing her of the ability to breathe for a moment as she wrapped her friends in a fierce hug, allowing her eyes to mist over. "We're going back to Malfoy Manor."

With a crack of Apparition, Theo, Luna, and Narcissa were gone, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the cabin.

**End of Part III**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Eep! And so we enter the final part of this fic. I can't wait to hear what you guys think! Only 11 more chapters until we reach the end (and that is a terrifying thought). 
> 
> I also wanted to leave a quick shoutout to a few readers whose reviews have just made my entire week: PotionChemist, coyg81, and Rdlentz8. Thank you all for taking the time to leave so many lovely reviews. I'd grown a bit resistant to checking review emails for this fic because of such negative reception early on, but all of you, including my lovely regular reviewers, have made such a difference in the way I view this fic lately. So thank you all for your time, your kind words, and for continuing to read this fic. I appreciate you all more than you will ever know <3


	36. Five of Cups

**Chapter 36 -** _**Five of Cups** _

It was too quiet. How ridiculous of her to notice, this charged silence between the two of them, but little else stood out other than their impending task, and it was easier to focus on the present than worry about what the future held for them.

Hundreds of words rushed to the forefront of her tongue, all the questions she had for him vying to be set loose... but none of them felt right, all entangled in the dread that assaulted her being so near the precipice she faced in returning to the manor, so she settled on her cot, worrying the strings of her little beaded bag. Instead of allowing herself to spill all her thoughts, she settled on the floor near the fireplace, upending the beaded bag to reorganize its contents.

It was redundant, menial work, but it filled the silence between them and gave her hands a task to stop their shaking, kept her mind from wandering toward Voldemort and all that faced them. At the manor, she'd left behind most of the books she had packed at Hogwarts; now, all that remained were a few potions books and a handful of ingredients.

Carefully sifting through the items, Hermione moved books to the left, ingredients to the right, and other odds and ends directly in front of her. Each piece she moved brought a new question.

Book.  _Would they make it to the end of this?_  Quill.  _Where were Narcissa, Theo, and Luna now?_ Bezoar.  _Who would she be when this was over?_ If  _this was over?_ Item after item, question after question, until there was nothing left to sort. And then she started over, grouping items together by what could be used in potions.

The nervous energy set her jittering; every time she thought she'd settled, accepting what was to come, a fresh wave of anxiety washed over her and she climbed to her feet, checking the parchment before resuming her place by the fire.

The lower the sun set, the higher her unrest climbed.

Draco, for his part, maintained the silence, pacing between the door and the parchment, waiting for some signal that Luna, Theo, and Narcissa had safely made it to Hogwarts. His anxiety manifested in his actions: the slight tremor of his hand, the way he clenched it then pushed it through his increasingly unruly locks, the way he could scarcely stand still for longer than a moment before he was moving again.

Finally, the silence grew too much for her to bear, and Hermione pushed herself upright, following Draco to the window. "Do you think they'll make it?" Her real question was hidden somewhere beneath the words:  _do you think_ we'll  _make it_?

Shuttering his gaze, Draco paused his pacing, staring off beyond the copse of trees. "They have to."

And she supposed he was right; there was no alternative. If this didn't work, they'd be taken before the Dark Lord as traitors, tried for treason if they were even given the courtesy, and killed for their efforts. Draco huffed, turning toward the window, eyeing the emerging shoots of grass, the last remnants of snow slipping off the branches. "My mother wouldn't have agreed if she had any doubts." He paused, clearing his throat. "And Theo and Luna have each other."

A knot lodged in Hermione's throat, sensing the words he didn't say. "I'm sorry… about your mother."

A sardonic smile pulled his lips up, but it didn't reach his gaze. "Granger, I know as well as anyone that my mother cannot be stopped when she gets an idea into her head." He dropped his shoulder into the sagging wall, his gaze lost in the falling night outside. "She's had time to prepare. And I've known…" He cut off with a gruff sigh.

Hermione allowed the unsaid words to settle between them. After a moment, she turned, eyeing the sharp curve of his jaw, the bow of his shoulders as he wrestled with his own demons. With a deep breath, she set her shoulders, watching the ripple of his features. "What's it like?"

He started, cutting his gaze to hers. "What's what like?"

Melancholy shot through her, sending her half-hearted smile wobbly as she turned away, fingers rising to trace nonsensical signs through the frost on the window. "Knowing you've people out there still that worry for you? That you care about, people you hope will come home?

As soon as she finished her question, she wished she could take it back. Draco's shoulders tightened, his face closing off, as he answered, "They care for you too, Granger."

Guilt was a powerful motivator, and she turned, steeling her resolve. "There's still so much I don't remember, but I  _want_ to." His jaw worked as though he was fighting a retort, but Hermione continued, undeterred. "I still feel it, this connection between you and I." Afraid to push him too far, Hermione lifted her hand, resting it on the forearm he'd crossed before him. A barrier, she thought, for the conversation she was pushing.

Draco sucked his bottom lip between his teeth at the contact, grey gaze shooting to the juncture of his forearm and her palm. "You'll remember that was your decision. Yours and Theo's." Bitterness coloured his tone, his forearm flexing beneath the flesh of her hand. "I had no choice in the matter."

Inclining her head, Hermione accepted the accusation. "You could tell me. Tell me what you wish you'd said before I left." Sliding her hand down his arm, Hermione slowly wrapped her hand around his wrist, pivoting his body away from the window. He moved like stone, heavy and unwieldy, before giving in with a harsh sigh.

"Hermione, I—" His Adam's apple bobbed up and down on a harsh swallow. "I'm not sure now is the time."

She answered his proclamation with a breathy sigh, sudden tears springing to her eyes, though she forced them away. "You heard your mother; there  _is_ no more time." Stepping into his space, Hermione clasped his hands, sliding her fingers between his. "Do you think monsters are born or are they created?" Hermione pushed, leaning into his space, desperate for confirmation that he understood.

Draco grimaced and shook his head. "It's not that easy. The Dark Lord... I would say he was born that way. I don't think there are any traces of good in him."

Hermione nodded; she wasn't contesting that Voldemort had been born with something wrong inside him. A chemical imbalance? A never-ending thirst for blood? Whatever it was, she wasn't denying it. But she couldn't bring herself to ask the question she most wanted him to answer: was  _she_  a monster?

How could she be anything less after killing her best friend?

Her voice shook around the emotions she tried to swallow. "What about this war? Do you— I don't know, do you think it's making monsters of us all?"

Draco wrenched his hands from her grasp and shoved them into the pockets of his worn trousers, a crease between his brows as he paced. "I don't think it's making monsters of us." He paused, his gaze searching the air between them. "I think we're fighting from  _becoming_  those monsters. And sometimes we have to do monstrous things. That doesn't make us bad. It makes us human."

Hermione huffed her disagreement. "But when do we cross that line? When is it just doing what needs to be done, and when do we become desensitized to the horrors and become it? Are we justifying these things because we've become what we feared?"

"Hermione, we're doing what needs to be done. We're fighting against people who want to literally destroy the majority of the population, and for what? To reduce the population down to a select few so that we'll all die out in a few centuries anyway?" His hands shook as he continued. "This is ridiculous! You're not the bad guy here." Draco's voice climbed higher with each sentence, red staining his cheeks and neck as he fought to keep his anger in check.

Hermione's own emotions ran unchecked, the guilt she'd ravaged herself with stifling her. Volatile magic crashed against her ribs, her stomach, fighting for freedom of the reins she carefully held it in check with. For the first time since the manor, she was perilously close to losing control. "I've been telling myself that this whole time, clinging to the hope that there's a reason behind all of this, but… Sometimes I wonder if I believe it anymore."

"Hermione, stop—"

"I'm a monster, you know?  _I'm_ one of the dangerous ones.  _I'm_ the one I run from in my nightmares. It's  _my_ hands that reach out and snare in my hair, wrap around my throat, choke the life out of me." Her voice broke. "There's so much blood on my hands that even if we make it out of this alive… I wonder if I'll know who I am anymore." Tears pooled in her eyes as her mind frantically wheeled from one question to the next.

This was a mistake.

Draco took a step forward to comfort her, but Hermione backed into the cabin wall, a harsh sob punctuating her retreat.

"Don't." Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, a broken grimace pulling his lips down. His voice was tinged with sorrow. "Don't run away from me."

"I wonder why it wasn't me. Why Harry? It would have been  _so easy_. If I'd have just put my wand down and stood between him and your father—" She scoffed, wilting down the wall and curling into herself, her desolate voice echoing around the threadbare room. "Maybe the potential was always there. Maybe it was just waiting for its chance to strike."

Draco's features tightened, the impending explosion playing across his features. She knew it was coming, knew it would be ugly, and yet she craved it. She craved the shouting and the accusations, the broken yells that would prove to her that they were both still alive. That he still  _cared_. "You don't get to talk about yourself like that, Hermione. You didn't have a  _choice_. None of us had a choice!" His voice trembled, tears filling up his eyes and spilling over as he angrily dashed them away. "Do you think any of the Order wanted you out here, running for your life, half dead and miserable?" Her jaw snapped open, heat flashing across her cheeks in her anger, but Draco slashed his hand down, stopping her in her tracks.

"No, Hermione, don't fucking interrupt me. My mother was out there leaving clues and trails for you to follow, endlessly working to keep one step ahead of everyone that wanted you dead. And then you went and got yourself caught because you're too fucking brave, too fucking  _stubborn_ , to listen to a warning when you have one. So I watched you suffer for weeks." Another broken sob quelled his words.

They stared at each other, Draco's eyes wild as he sucked in breath, and Hermione sank down the wall, her legs unable to hold her upright any longer.

"I watched as he tried to destroy you, while he made me use this curse against you and turn you into a shell of yourself, and I watched a little bit of you die every time I had to be in that god-forsaken cage." His sharp intake of breath after his tirade made Hermione curl further into herself. "You don't get to continue to beat yourself up over a situation you had absolutely no control over. Be the fucking Gryffindor that I know you are, pull yourself together, and do something about it." His breathing ragged, he looked at her. "You left me. And I came back for you, but are you even trying anymore?"

Silence reigned between them, and she replayed the past few months in her mind. The blood, the screams, the cruelty with which she was treated. If she hadn't asked Theo to erase her memories, would they still be here?

Draco snapped. "Do you think this is easy for any of us, Granger? We've all had to do things we've regretted. Do you think I liked watching you be tortured by people I'd once considered my friends? Or that it was pleasant to watch our classmates writhe when I tried to get information from them?"

Hermione whimpered.

"I watched our classmates die, Hermione, while the jolly bunch of you traipsed the countryside doing Merlin knows what for six months. I watched him feed people to that giant menace of a snake." He couldn't control the shudder that wracked his body as he knelt in front of her and rested his hands on her knees. "But I'm still here, Hermione.  _We're_ still here. Through it all, we made it back to each other. Doesn't that count for something?"

Hermione looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

"I know you're hurting. What you did— I know it can't be easy. I know he was your best friend; I know you cared deeply about him. But it was an  _accident_ , Hermione. If you hadn't killed him, it would have been the Dark Lord. That's more of a mercy than you could ever imagine handing Harry. It's more than they would have ever received from him."

"I see him in my dreams, Draco. He's there, begging me not to hurt him, begging me—" her voice broke, and Draco leaned further into her space, searching her gaze. When she didn't dart away, he gathered her into his arms. Tremors wracked through her as she forced the thoughts out. "I just can't escape the feeling of his blood on my hands and the light going out of his eyes." A gasping sob punctuated her last statement. "I don't know that I can forgive myself."

She could feel tremors radiating through Draco as he tried to calm her. All the guilt, all the self-hatred, that she'd buried the beneath the curse had been pooled just below the surface, waiting for an errant thought to break the surface of her mind and drag her under. It was as though cement blocks were anchored to her ankles, pulling her down until she could scarcely breathe.

Draco's lips brushed against the top of her hair. She barely caught his whisper of anguish. "Hermione, I can't save you. I can barely save myself."

His words woke up the fierce, protective nature that Harry had always brought out in her, but this was tempered by the maelstrom of emotions she felt for Draco. "We'll save each other, then." The way he melted into her quelled her despair despite the pounding of her heart.

Perhaps they'd be okay.

Their breath mingled together in the shaky assurances of their mutual presence. Draco suddenly shifted in Hermione's hold, one hand snaking up to grasp her chin and tilt it upward. He exhaled anothering shaking breath, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry, Granger. If I could take it all back…"

But she reached out, tangling her fingers in the worn material of his shirt. "I know, Draco. Me too." Tilting her head, Hermione pressed her lips to his, heart in her throat. Draco responded in kind, cradling her jaw and pressing a heartbreakingly chaste kiss to her lips.

"You changed everything.  _Everything_ , Hermione. And I know we don't have much time, but I want to spend whatever time we have left making sure the Dark Lord pays." He sucked in a breath and looked at her, his gaze uncharacteristically bare of all pretenses and masks that he normally wore. "But Granger, you are not a monster. You're the light this world needs. And at the end of the day, some things have to go very, very wrong before they can be made right. I know that Harry would want you to keep fighting, no matter what."

Tears cascaded down Hermione's cheeks as she stared at him. She couldn't save him, but they could fight through whatever came. Together.

Ever so slowly, she slid her hand up his neck and tangled her fingers in the straggly ends of his hair, so different from the pristine blond locks of the boy she knew at Hogwarts. This man was still the same person, but he carried the weight of horrible knowledge on his shoulders, weight that was all too familiar to her. She took a deep breath and, flicking her eyes upward at his when he exhaled sharply against her face, closed her eyes and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was the second scene I ever wrote for this fic... in 2016. So it's been a long time coming (and heavily edited since then lol). I know it's a bit slower than the others and it feels like the action is slowing down, but stick with me. The journey is almost complete and I'm really honored that you've all stuck around for so long. Thank you for reading. Alpha creds to LadyKenz347 and beta creds to tofadeawayagain. See you next Tuesday.

**Author's Note:**

> I value your thoughts. Updated once a week.


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